The Fourth Sin
by Bradypus
Summary: Harry Potter's misadventures in the warped world of witches and wizards. Child endangerment, questionably-motivated adults in positions of power, and copious convolution. Rated M for infrequent gore and the occasional obscenity.
1. A Slow Start

Harry Potter found himself, not for the first time, outside of his dormitory and in a part of the castle far far away from anywhere in particular, after a near run-in with Filch and the dreaded Mrs Norris. He had been en route to meet Hermione and Ron for one of their frequent after-hours adventures when he found himself tailed by the mangy feline. He had always suspected that his father's Invisibility Cloak did not fully shroud him from her lamp-like eyes. Stepping up his pace, he rounded a corner and, as he focused his attention on looking back at his pursuer, he forgot about an inconveniently placed statue whose feet stuck out far farther than the narrow corridor allowed. Now, sprawled on the floor, with the Cloak snagged on a pointed stone boot and covering only his feet, he looked up to lock gazes with Mrs Norris. Sure enough, he could hear the hurried shuffling which announced the approach of Filch, the caretaker. Unable to free the Cloak, he had only one option left. He closed his eyes and hoped that he could make it in time.

As Filch rounded the corner panting, his eyes found his faithful cat and a seemingly empty hall. His eyes raked every crevice, as if the wayward student might have found a way to hide. Then his gaze darted back to the statue, from the neck of which hung a great fucker of a grey sloth. It peered round at him with dull eyes and then continued with its strenuous climb. Filch huffed in resignation, and wheezed to Mrs Norris, "Probably escaped from the Transfiguration labs. Nothing for us to worry about, my sweet." With that, the pair turned from the slowly ascending animal and walked on, disappearing amongst the maze of hallways.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, though as a sloth it was more of a gradual expelling of air. He had mastered transforming into an animagus late in his first year, despite the fact that it took any other skilled witch or wizard many years to achieve this feat. When he was sure that he was alone, he changed back, tugged the Cloak free and ran to meet Ron and Hermione near Hagrid's hut. He had been reluctant to go, but at Hermione's insistence that Hagrid could use the emotional support before Buckbeak's disciplinary hearing, and her optimistic suggestion that this show of friendship might reduce their chances of being exposed to extremely dangerous and possibly man-eating creatures in their lessons, Harry and Ron had agreed. As he approached the meeting point however, he saw that they had gone in without him. Sulking, he sat under a tree and waited for them to emerge. Not five minutes later, he saw the bowler-hatted Minister for Magic and the cowled Ministry-appointed executioner heading down to the hut. Speaking into the oversized conch shell that Hermione had enchanted for exactly this purpose (paired with her cowrie and Ron's marginella), he told both Ron and her of the approaching company. They soon exited the cabin through the back door, and waited until the visitors had passed them by, before hurrying to the tree by which Harry was hidden.

"How did it go?" Harry asked.

"Absolute bollocks," Ron replied. "He was so upset that he barely noticed we were there. He didn't even try to introduce us to some new cross-bred abomination that wants nothing more than to shred our skin off."

Harry nodded. A lucky escape. They started up to the castle, keeping out of sight. As they skirted round the Whomping Willow Harry saw a dark shape moving rapidly towards them. Before he could shout and warn the other two, it was upon them and had pounced on Ron, sinking its teeth into his leg and dragging him towards the Willow. As was its nature, the tree launched its attack on the struggling boy, its branches leaving deep scratches. Ron was wailing and screaming, narrowly avoiding being crushed by the larger bark-covered limbs, while Hermione and Harry stood stock still. They watched in shock as the shape, a scruffy dog, Harry decided, touched a knot at the base of the violent tree, and once it had stilled, took Ron into a small tunnel between the roots. His cries became quiet and distant.

Harry turned to look at Hermione. She shrugged.

"Perhaps he just wants a mate. We should head in before we're missed." Hermione said without concern. Harry's look told her that this was, in fact, a dangerous situation not to be passed up on. Sighing in resignation, she followed Harry into the earthy tunnel. After a time, the passageway began to rise and twist sinuously. Harry, in the lead as ever, could see a dim light at the far end.

Harry and Hermione came out into a room so dilapidated as to be wholly unsalvageable. A thick coat of dust covered every surface, save a path where the mongrel had hauled its unwilling guest, leading towards the stairs. What might have once been decent furniture had long-since lost its lustre. A creak upstairs caught their attention.

Using standard military hand-signals (drilled into him when 'playing' war games with Dudley) Harry directed his small company upwards. Hermione failed to comprehend his strange gesticulating, rolled her eyes, pulled out her wand, and led the way up the stairs. Disgruntled, Harry followed. They kicked the door wide, and saw ahead of them a once-splendid four-poster bed, with their wounded comrade sprawled across the moth-eaten bedspread.

"Where's the dog?" Hermione asked.

Ron's expression perfectly captured his distaste at being the secondary consideration in this matter.

"I'll have you know that I am in fact an Irish Wolfhound of exceptional pedigree, not some mutt." croaked a rough voice from behind the door. Black stood there, his sunken face framed by matted locks. Using Ron's wand, he disarmed the pair of them, all the while his eyes never leaving Harry's face.

"Thought you'd come to help your friend." he said with a voice that sounded hoarse with disuse. "Your father would've done the same for me. Same Gryffindor courage, same face, but Lily's eyes of course."

"But Harry's not a Gryffindor!" exclaimed Ron from his recumbent position on the bed. The gaunt man turned to look at the ginger youth, then back at Harry. He stared in bemusement at the bespectacled boy. Harry gulped.

"I'm in Hufflepuff," he said questioningly, "I thought everyone knew?"

Black looked round at the three of them.

"But.. you two.. you're in Gryffindor?" He asked.

Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance.

"No, Ronald is in Slytherin," she said with a degree of derision, "and of course, I am in Ravenclaw."

Silence greeted this revelation, only to be broken by the sound of footsteps on the musty stairs. As Ron shifted on the bed, they quickened, and the next moment Lupin appeared in the doorway. His eyes raked the room, and he quickly disarmed Black.

"Where is he, Sirius?" He said in a voice that shook with unexpressed emotion.

Black said nothing, but instead raised his now-empty hand to point directly at Ron, who looked just as confused as Harry felt.

"But then why hasn't he shown himself before now? Unless-" Lupin's eyes widened as if in shock, as if he was seeing something that no-one else could see, "-unless _he_ was the one… unless you switched… without telling me?"

A nod.

"Professor," said Hermione inquisitively, nicely breaking the building sexual tension, "what exactly is going-?"

She never finished the question, however, her voice trailing off as she watched Lupin lower his wand, help Black to his feet, and embrace him like a brother.

"I DON'T BELIEVE IT!" she screamed, "You and him! I didn't tell anyone-"

"Hermione, calm down-"

"I trusted you, and all this time you've been his friend!" This stunning leap of deductive reasoning was Harry's witty contribution to the dialogue.

"You're wrong," began the only competent Defence teacher that they'd ever had, "I haven't been Sirius' friend for nigh on twelve years, but I am now… let me expla-"

"NO, Harry, don't trust him," Hermione screamed, "He's been helping Black get into the castle all year, he wants you dead too - _he's a werewolf_!"

At this point, Professor Snape burst through the opened door, eyes wide, finger pointing accusingly, shrieking at the top of his lungs, "WEREWOLVES!"

* * *

_So let's pause this here for a moment or three, so that I can explain a few key details to you all. Severus here has, as petty revenge for a perceived slight many moons ago, been trying to convince all and sundry that Professor Remus J. Lupin is a werewolf. For your amusement and mine let's take a look at some of the more notable incidents:_

It can be observed that whenever Professor Severus T. Snape and Professor Remus J. Lupin near each other in the corridors of Hogwarts, the former will invariably press his back fast against the wall, and fumble in his robes for moment, before revealing an antique revolver. He will then make a great song and dance of checking and rechecking the cylinder of his weapon, all the while muttering,

"Silver, got to be silver. Only thing that works on the bastards. Only thing."

His eyes then follow Lupin's back until the shabby man disappears from view.

_The good professor has continued this act for several months now, despite the fact that it is a commonly known fact that silver has no notable effect on werewolves. Next, we have the 'Notorious Instance in the Great Hall at Breakfasttime':_

Looking uncharacteristically gleeful, Severus Snape threw open the doors (which he had closed but moments earlier to create a properly dramatic effect) to the Great Hall, and strode down the centre aisle with his cloak billowing out behind him like a malevolent dark aura made from chiffon and silk. Walking purposefully towards the staff table, he announced to his captive audience,

"In case anyone has need of it, I am currently nearing the the end of the Wolfsbane potion's brewing cycle. As it must be taken daily for a full week preceding the full moon, I advise any who may have need of it to make themselves known."

This was followed by a decidedly unsubtle stare at the newly appointed Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Remus J. Lupin. His fellow staff member looked utterly bewildered.

Snape then turned to face those in the Great Hall, excited to see what impact his words had had. He was disappointed to find however, that their attention had waned and that they had returned to their breakfast. The other teachers too, seemed underwhelmed by his generous offer.

_Thirdly, when Remus was taken ill with a slight head cold, the esteemed Professor Severus Snape was the only competent member of staff available to cover the lesson with his third-year Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw class. This did not follow the lesson-plan._

"Turn to page three-hundred and niiinety-fouuuur."

The class grudgingly did as bidden by Professor Snape, opening their copies of _The Dark Forces: a Guide to Self-Protection_ by _Quentin Trimble_ to see a chapter far further than they had previously read, entitled _Werewolves_.

Padma Patil put her hand up. "But sir, we aren't meant to start that for weeks! We're starting Hinkypunks-"

"_Silence!_" snarled Snape, "So far behind? I would expect first-years to be well acquainted with such harmless creatures. I must admit, I never thought I'd meet a third-year class who wouldn't even recognise a werewolf when they saw one. Educate yourselves." *sassy finger snaps*

They had not been reading the assigned chapter for more than two minutes before Professor Snape interrupted with an answer of his own:

"The werewolf is easily distinguished among humans for its prematurely aged appearance, shabby clothes, and of course, their otherwise 'inexplicable' disappearance during the nights of the full moon. Nights such as this one… for example."

He paused for effect, revelling in his own mastery of dramatic technique.

"Let us now consider the common grey wolf, the variety most likely to be found in Hogwarts' surrounding environs. Known to the precious few scholars amongst you as _Canis Lupus Lupus_, from the Latin _lupus_ meaning _wolf_, leading to _lupinus_ meaning _wolf-like_…"

"Reminded as we are of your absent instructor, his own name 'Remus' is in fact the same as the brother of the alleged founder of Rome, Romulus. As I am sure you are aware, the two brothers were looked after by a she-wolf as babies. You will agree then, that your Professor has a particularly _lupine_ name."

_Essentially, Professor Snape is not a subtle man._

* * *

Those assembled in the decrepit room turned to look at the accused; Lupin. When Snape had evened his breathing, he spoke again.

"That man," he spat, "is a dangerous, blood-thirsty monster! How could anyone not notice the signs? He's nowhere to be found on the nights of the full moon; he looks about fifty but he's only thirty-four; the one thing more commonly found in his hair other than dandruff are the streaks of grey; and his pasty skin that only pales further as the full moon approaches, are all absolute proof!"

Out of breath once again after finishing this tirade, Snape took a moment to recover.

Sirius spoke first. "Remus, I had no idea! You could have told me - I wouldn't have judged you. I could have been there for you! I'll buy a house, far out in the country with no-one else for miles, and on those difficult nights, I'll hold you close and calm you, and we can live out our days at last in happiness."

He looked eagerly at Lupin, whose mouth was hanging slightly open, his eyes not entirely comprehending. When he had regained his composure, he replied,

"Thank you, Sirius, for that show of support, though seeing as you are a convicted mass-murderer, I think that most people will be more likely to take issue with you, not me. With regards to the other matter, however, despite Severus' convictions, I can assure you all that I am, in fact, not a werewolf."

Harry cocked his head and screwed up his eyes as if in deep concentration. Ron too looked perplexed.

"But Snape just said that you were.." Harry said "and he makes a very convincing argument. How can you not-"

Hermione interrupted him "Harry, don't think too hard, you'll hurt yourself. Professor Snape is correct. After reading all about werewolves traits and habits in our cover lesson, I too became convinced that Professor Lupin is one."

"And now let me explain why I am not." said Lupin. "I missed that _one _lesson as I was suffering both from a migraine and the tender mercies of Madam Pomfrey. Also, I take issue with being described as 'about fifty'! - I may not be in the prime of my youth but I like to think that I don't quite look middle-aged yet! _And the grey isn't that noticeable!_" he added with a notable degree of hysteria in his voice.

"Makes you look very distinguished." said Sirius helpfully.

Lupin nodded his thanks to his old friend and continued. "With regard to the comment about my skin, Severus, perhaps I am a little pallid, but you're hardly a picture of health yourself. You might want to see a healer - it could well be jaundice."

Harry, unable to fully understand the intricacies of this verbal sparring, and seeking intellectual guidance as always, looked to Hermione. Slightly put-out by the thought of being wrong, she grudgingly admitted,

"That...does make sense, I suppose. The only proof we have is quite circumstantial." Then, in a slightly quieter tone to her classmates, she continued, "Harry, pay attention now - Professor Lupin probably isn't a werewolf."

"Yeah," added Sirius, nodding his head emphatically "I definitely would have known about it. Remus wouldn't keep secrets from me." He gave Lupin a fond, slightly obsessive look. "And now, let us return to the reason we're all gathered here: to kill Peter Pettigrew!"

"What?" Snape snapped "I came here purely to humiliate Lupin - I've no interest in mindless violence." He turned to the man in question. "Don't think this is over, you beast! I'll prove it to the whole school!" With that, he pivoted neatly on his heel and, cloak billowing majestically, swept from the room.

Sirius clapped his hand together enthusiastically. "Righty-ho, then," he said "on to the main event. Ronald, was it? Let's have that rat of yours."

Ron looked dazed for a moment.

"You mean Scabbers? Um, yeah, he's in my pocket. Been lying on my side, so I think I might have squashed him a little bit...hang on a sec." He shifted his weight and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a somewhat ruffled, rather flattened rat. It made no attempt to escape, still sluggish from the lack of air it had been experiencing. Sirius made to pick up the still creature when Lupin beat him to it, asking,

"Shouldn't we hear what he has to say first? Wait and see if our theory is correct?"

"I DID MY WAITING! TWELVE YEARS OF IT. IN AZKABAN!" shouted Sirius a little too loudly.

"Nice delivery." said Lupin.

"Why do you want to kill a rat?" Harry asked, only just catching up.

* * *

"_Bloody brilliant."_

_- Andy Smudgely, correspondent, The Evening Prophet_

"_A telling work, reflecting the deep insecurities of the authors."_

_- Rita Skeeter, 'Queen of the Quills', Daily Prophet _


	2. To Whack A Rat

Lupin, satisfied that everyone was reasonably calm and rational (as much as could be expected, any way), returned Harry and Hermione their wands, and gave Ron's to Sirius. Then he spoke.

"What Sirius and I suspect is that this rat is, in fact, not a rat at all, but rather a man known to those of us who considered him our friend as Peter. Peter Pettigrew. Along with your father, Harry, the four of us were great friends. We called ourselves the marauders, and spent our time at school getting up to all sorts of high jinks and japes, even becoming unregistered animagi in our fifth year. My, but the comic capers we used to have! We used to -"

"Remus, let's get back on topic, shall we?" interjected Black, wisely recognising that his friend could wax lyrical about their school years for days on end with minimal effort.

"Ah, yes, I suppose we ought. Anyway, when James and Lily went into hiding with Harry, Sirius was made their Secret Keeper. You know of the Fidelius Charm, I presume?"

Only Hermione nodded. Lupin decided to pretend that Harry and Ron had done the same, and continued.

"As you know, James and Lily's secret was betrayed, allowing You-Know-Who-The-Dark-Lord-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-But-In-Case-You-Didn't-Know-He-Was-Really-Evil to find their house, and kill them. At the time, it was assumed that Sirius gave away their location, before killing Peter, but in light of the fact that Peter is currently alive and sitting in my left hand, I can't help but think that someone else was made their Secret Keeper, and that this mystery person exposed them instead."

"Yes," agreed Sirius. "I convinced Lily and James to make Pettigrew the Keeper, and told Dumbledore. No-one would suspect such a wormy, weak, talentless, opportunistic dipshit to be trusted with anything remotely sirius." Realising the flaw in his logic, he quickly added "We were friends though, really close friends, very loyal."

"And you're sure Scabbers is really Pettigrew?" asked Ron.

"Absolutely." said Lupin. "I saw his name appear on the Marauder's Map (which as we all know, can never lie) this evening. Why d'you think that rat has lived so long? He's even missing a whole chunk out of his right paw, and all that was found of Peter twelve years ago was his index finger. Coincidence? I THINK NOT!"

Informative and interesting as this conversation was, it also allowed for the rat in question to recover somewhat, and attempt to make it's escape. It leapt from Remus' hand, and made for the door - those still armed reacted immediately. Lupin, Hermione, and Sirius all took aim (whilst Harry flailed aimlessly), and cried their respective spell of choice:

Lupin, ever lawful, cried '_Incarcerous!_', thick ropes flying from his wand, and binding the fleeing rodent tightly, whilst Hermione's carefully enunciated '_Immobulus!_' froze the little shit mid-leap. However, the precisely controlled capture of the rat was ruined somewhat by Sirius' addition. Or rather, additions.

"_Incendio! Defodio!_"

"Sirius! -"

"_Expulso! Flagrate!_"

"Sirius, I really think that that's enou-"

"_Tergeo! Orchideous! Diffindo! Furnunculus!_"

"Very nice, Sirius, although I think that covering him in sliced-up orchids was perhaps a tad excessive…"

Whilst this exchange had been taking place, Harry, not wanting to feel left out, had been mimicking the others and shouting words that vaguely sounded like spells, but definitely weren't anything that he'd learnt in the classroom. A sickly orange light flew from his wand, and upon hitting the beleaguered rat it caused large chunks of flesh, still aflame from Sirius' masterwork, to fly off around the room.

The last spell fizzled out, and everyone lowered their wands as they observed their handiwork. It appeared that at some point during the short firestorm, consumed in hexes and curses, Pettigrew had transformed into his human self.

His body was splayed on the floor, grotesquely twisted and stiff, split and burst from the charred remnants of the ropes which had temporarily bound him. Now embedded deeply into his flesh, they were stretched and snapped from the strain of Pettigrew's unwilling transformation. Still furred in places, large pieces of his pelt were curling off of him in great, dark crisps, and what little of his visible skin that was not burnt red raw was covered in large boils. A great hole had been ripped through his chest as though something vital had burst out rather forcefully, and huge gouges covered his mangled body; the missing pieces could be found scattered about the room, some expelled with such force as to be lodged deep into the mouldering walls. The already filthy carpet was doing its best to soak up the copious amount of blood that was leaking from every available orifice, and thanks to Sirius' particular brand of morbid humour, the entire scene was littered with shredded flowers.

"Is he dead?" Harry asked.

Sirius looked at him sharply. "You're a little.. slow, aren't you? I really shouldn't have dropped you so many times as a kid."

"Well so much for hearing his side of the story." said Lupin. He didn't sound entirely disappointed. "At least we can still prove your innocence Sirius."

"Hang on," interjected Hermione. "He may not have killed Pettigrew like everyone thought, or betrayed Harry's parents, but what about those twelve Muggles that also died?"

Sirius looked uneasy.

"That was Pettigrew. He caused the explosion, severed his own finger, faked his death, all that."

Even Ron was surprised at this.

"You mean that the man you just described as 'a wormy, weak, talentless, opportunistic dipshit' managed to outwit and publicly frame you?"

"That's the story I'm going with!" Sirius grinned. "I was overcome with grief." he added seriously.

Lupin drew their attention back to the present.

"We need to get Peter's body up to the castle to back up our story"

Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"I'm not going near that thing." he looked at Sirius. "You really overdid it."

Sirius ignored this comment. "I'd be more than happy to take charge of transporting our old friend." he said.

"That is _my_ wand.." Ron muttered meekly.

Sirius waved the borrowed wand. Pettigrew's corpse flopped over onto its front, the chest reared up, like cobra ready to strike, though the head lolled back and the arms lay bonelessly at the sides. Having created the desired position, Sirius directed the body out the door. It slithered quickly down the stairs like a ragdoll, with an audible 'thump' on each step. Sirius followed to oversee its journey down the tunnel, carefully avoiding trail of blood, petals, and pus from the ruptured boils.

Those left behind each tried to conceal their distaste at this display, failed, and then filed out the room. Harry caught up to Sirius who was greatly enjoying further disfiguring Pettigrew's body.

"So, what will you do once your name is cleared?" Harry asked. Sirius looked back at him with a smile.

"You know, I hadn't even thought about it. I've been so obsessed with tracking down and killing Peter that I hadn't considered what would happen next." he was silent for a moment, as if unsure of what to say..

"Harry, did you know that Lily and James made me your godfather?"

Harry shook his head, startled.

Sirius continued: "I know we've only just met, and that up until half an hour ago you thought I was a psychotic murderer and the one responsible for betraying your parents, but I want to make up for lost time… if you'd like?"

Harry's eyes began to water. Did someone truly care about him? Unable to put his enthusiasm into words, he just smiled and nodded.

Taking this as a good sign, Sirius said "And you could even come and visit me in the holidays, if you wanted to. I do own a house, in London. It would be great to have you there, you're just like James." then he looked back quickly at Harry. "Except he was in Gryffindor, of course."

This shattered Harry's daydream of a Dursley-free life, spending his school holidays in touch with the magical world, playing fetch with Sirius, hanging from trees..

"So, Hufflepuff. That's.. unexpected." Sirius said cautiously. "How'd that happen, hm?"

* * *

_When eleven-year-old-Harry came to Hogwarts to start his first year, to be absolutely, utterly truthful he knew not a thing about the wizarding world, or the esteemed establishment at which he would soon be studying. Kind of a shame, really - imagine how much funnier life would be if he really knew about his heritage? Still, it will be a long time, I guess, before he finally sorts out his wrackspurt infestation. Anyways, let's take a look at that moment when he truly joined his Hogwarts family! Look there - Harry waits next to all of the other nervous first years, some of whom have definitely peed themselves. He waits to be sorted, anxiously fiddling with a loose thread in his robe. His name is called. He perches on a rickety stool in full view of the rest of the school. A tattered hat is plonked on his head._

Almost immediately a slightly camp voice pervaded the vast empty expanse of his mind.

"Darling, I don't mean to insult you, but let's not beat about the bush. To say that you've any great intellect would be laughable. You're certainly not courageous in a sensible way, and your ambition is non-existent. So, that leaves us with only one choice, doesn't it?"

Harry had barely followed the Hat's scathing commentary, being too distracted by the mysterious glory of the floating candles and enchanted ceiling, but he had managed to pick up on the fact that it was being rather rude.

"Now wait a second-" Harry began.

The Hat cut him off. "No, no, darling, shush now, I may not have a head but I've certainly got more brains than the measly cell-count in your noggin."

With that declaration, the Sorting Hat shouted 'HUFFLEPUFF' for all to hear. A great cheer came from the aforementioned table. Not seeing any other alternative, Harry got up and walked over to be greeted by his new housemates.

* * *

Finding the way to the Entrance Hall clear, the group of five-plus-corpse made their way to the Headmaster's office, avoiding a few hairy moments solely due to Black and Lupin's years of expertise sneaking around, with a limping Ron bringing up the rear. Standing before the stone gargoyle that guarded the office, Lupin addressed his congregation.

"Sirius, I think it would be for the best if you and Peter stayed out here for now, whilst Harry, Ron, Hermione and I go in and explain the situation. Agreed? I said, '_Agreed_', Sirius."

Sirius nodded like a petulant child.

Lupin turned his attention the guardian of the office and said clearly: "Fudge Flies." Immediately the gargoyle leapt aside to reveal a circular, moving stone staircase. Perhaps due to his half-blood upbringing, Remus had always felt a lift would be more efficient and far less ostentatious. Still, that's wizards for you. They climbed and spiraled up to the heavy wooden door, through which a loud voice could be heard.

"But Albus, you do think that green suits me well, don't you? And the stripes _are_ slimming, aren't they?"

Lupin smiled in recognition.

"Speaking of Fudge.." he muttered, more to himself that anyone else. He knocked on the door.

"Ah, come in, Remus," came Dumbledore's calm voice.

Lupin ushered his charges inside ahead of him, and then closed the door. Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was sat behind his large, claw-foot desk, and Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, stood mid-whine in front of the fireplace.

"Headmaster, Minister, so sorry to interrupt, but something rather urgent's come up." said Lupin. Dumbledore nodded and motioned for him to continue. "You see, Peter Pettigrew has been found." Harry couldn't help but feel that this was a slightly unusual interpretation of the truth, but had to admit that it probably sounded better than "Peter wasn't dead, but then we killed him for the sake of continuity."

"P- Pettigrew?" stuttered Fudge. "How the blazes? I mean, he died, twelve years ago, for Merlin's sake!"

"Allow me to explain." said Lupin. He recounted the somewhat preposterous tale that Sirius had provided, and told the two men how Pettigrew was responsible for revealing the Potter's location to Voldemort, framing Sirius, and killing the Muggles when he blew up the street to escape. For the moment, and for the sake of Fudge's nerves, he wisely left out the fact that Sirius Black was just downstairs. When he was finished, the Minister said,

"That's a fine story, Mister Lupin, but what proof is there? Where is Pettigrew now, if he really is alive? And where's Sirius Black, for that matter?"

"They're just outside Minister, if you'll allow me to fetch them?" he said, whilst unashamedly directing his question to the Headmaster. Dumbledore nodded a second time. Lupin quickly went down to bring Sirius and Pettigrew into the picture, while Harry, Hermione, and Ron stood awkwardly, trying to avoid staring at both the Minister for Magic and their enigmatic Headmaster, losing themselves in the massive smörgåsbord of shit that littered the professor's office. Lupin soon reappeared.

"May I present to you Messers Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew!" he said, as if introducing the opening act for a show. In walked Sirius, looking filthy, haggard and worn, but smiling grimly. At the sight of him, Fudge paled, let out a small squeak, and jumped back slightly. Then, however, came the real pièce de résistance. Pettigrew, still directed by Sirius' hand and Ron's wand, slithered around Harry and into the centre of room, before rising upright like a sculpture in an ornamental garden. Fudge's eyes raked up, down, and up again the hideous length of disfigured and blemished flesh for a moment, before he turned and vomited violently in the fireplace.

"Ah yes," said Lupin without remorse. "I'm afraid that I rather neglected to mention that due to an unfortunate casting of multiple spells on his person, Peter Pettigrew is, in fact, actually dead this time. You know how spells can combine with all sorts of unexpected results, and all that."

"Indeed so - it can happen to the best of us, I'm sure." Dumbledore spoke at last. "I must add, Cornelius, that Mr Black did mention that he intended to suggest that James Potter used Mr. Pettigrew as Secret Keeper all those years ago, but as James never said anything to me then I have to confess to assuming that it was merely a ruse to direct blame towards on Peter once the Potters were killed. Now, however, I find myself believing it to be true, and as such, I cannot help but believe that Sirius Black is innocent."

Fudge still looked rather unhealthy, but still he blustered, "Now look here Dumbledore, that's all well and good, but who else is going to buy a word of this cock-and-bull story? I'll look awfully silly saying that the man we've spent near a year chasing should never have been locked up in the first place!"

"That's as may be, but surely it's better than condemning an innocent man to Azkaban yet again?" Dumbledore said placidly. Fudge shuffled from foot to foot like a child being chastised, before saying,

"Very well, very well, I'll issue a pardon for Sirius Black," he nodded to Sirius "and a statement explaining the events. Not that anyone will believe it of course."

"Perhaps it would also be wise to have the Dementors removed from around the castle, seeing as there is no longer any danger from escaped criminals?" requested Lupin.

Dumbledore looked to him. "Those strange hooded fellows, you mean? Yes, they do seem to be rather keen on a more European style of greeting, wouldn't you agree? Unfailingly polite, of course, but one can't help but feel that it's a little forward. I'm more partial to a firm handshake, myself." No-one was quite sure how to respond to this statement, so our cast simply milled around aimlessly for a moment, before Fudge cleared his throat in an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence.

"I'd best be off then, get this mess sorted and all that. The Daily Prophet will be all over this massive tits-up and no mistake." he said, making for the door. Before he could reach it, it was slammed open so hard that it rebounded off the wall and back onto the hooked nose of the person entering, rather ruining their entrance.

"Minister!" cried Snape, looking thoroughly deranged. Fudge took an alarmed step back. "Thank Merlin you're here!" He advanced on Fudge whilst the portly man took equal steps to avoid him, tripping over Pettigrew's legs in the process. Snape towered over the sprawling Minister on the floor.

"That man," he said, once again pointing manically at Lupin, his finger a mere inch from his colleague's nose, "is a werewolf!"

Fudge started at Lupin, wide-eyed, before attempting somewhat ineffectually to crawl away from him in fear. His endeavours were, however, hindered by the mass of Pettigrew's blubbery corpse, and he merely succeeded in ruining his rather natty pinstriped robe-suit.

"We've already been through this once this evening." said Sirius with surprising patience. "Remus is not, and has never been, a werewolf, Minister, Professor Dumbledore." Fudge looked unconvinced.

"HE IS! See how he's grown more hair by the light of the moon! His nails, why they're more like claws now, and look at that predatory gleam in his eye!" Snape raved, mere moments away from a full foaming fit.

"I think it best that I be going now, Albus" stammered Fudge, struggling to untangle himself from Peter's legs. The rat-man's upside down face gazed up at him mockingly, as Snape ranted about Lupin's wolf-like attributes. When he had finally freed himself, he cast a wary glance at Lupin, who half-blocked the door, another at Snape who (for lack of an interested human audience) was now directing his rant towards a portrait of Phyllida Spore, and a last one at the corpse. With no other obvious means of escape, he backed into the fireplace, stepping straight into his pile of fresh vomit.

"Dragon balls!" he cursed, before throwing a pinch of Floo Powder into the fire, shouting "ANYWHERE BUT HERE" and disappearing in a flare of emerald green flames.

* * *

"_We loved the bit with the mermaids."_

_- Xenophilius Lovegood, editor, The Quibbler_

"_A novel perspective on a story we all know and love."_

_- Betty Braithwaite, correspondent, Daily Prophet_


	3. Just Around the Corner

Seeing that his chance to reveal Professor Lupin's lycanthropic nature to the entire Wizarding World had just gone up in flames, Snape rounded on Sirius.

"You! The Dementors will be very pleased to know you've been found." he cackled.

"Actually Severus" said Dumbledore "in your absence we have learned that Sirius Black is not in fact guilty of any of the crimes for which he was imprisoned. As such, the Ministry will be issuing a pardon and full apology to him. And, in a truly joyous turn of events, the real culprit of those heinous crimes had been brought to justice. Isn't that marvellous?"

The expression on Snape's face (as if he were sucking on a lemon) indicated that he was, in fact, not marvelling at all, but was in fact quite pissed off. He was deathly silent for a moment, apoplexy visibly building in his eyes.

"You mean to say that this vagrant, this piece of utter filth, will walk out of here a free man? No further investigation, just let him go? Nevermind his egotism and the sadistic pleasure he takes in bullying those he perceives as weaker than him! Nor that he betrayed Lil-uh-the Order, and is a psychopathic, murdering spy for the Dark Lord! HE DESERVES TO HAVE HIS SOUL SUCKED OUT THROUGH HIS NOSE! HE SHOULD LIVE THE REST OF HIS PATHETIC LIFE AS AN EMPTY VEGETATIVE SHELL!"

"He has committed no crime, Severus." said Dumbledore with a calm to equal Snape's outrage.

"And him! The bastard werewolf! There needs to be a cull, vicious filthy beasts that they are! Look how he's destroyed this body here - he's a murderer too!" Snape seethed.

"Whether Sirius and Remus are murderers is, I feel, debatable. I think we can rule the death of Peter Pettigrew as 'accidental'." The Headmaster smiled genially and nodded at each person in turn.

Realising that he was fighting a losing battle, or rather, that he had been unsaddled even before the charge, Snape sought out a new target. His eyes snapped to Harry, as if seeing him for the first time this evening. Reaching boiling point, he screamed:

"THIS IS ALL BECAUSE OF POTTER! HE'S TRICKED YOU ALL! CONSORTING WITH CRIMINALS AND WEREWOLVES, WITH ARROGANCE TO RIVAL HIS FATHER'S, STRUTTING, ATTENTION-SEEKING, BASTARD! IMPERTINENT, SAINT-BLOODY-POTTER FLOUTING AUTHORITY AT EVERY TURN-"

Lost in his somewhat incoherent rambling, Professor Snape stormed about the office (treading on and breaking some of the few still-intact bones in Pettigrew's fingers) until his meandering took him out the door and down the stairs. Quiet began to fall once more, although they could vaguely hear him informing the gargoyle of his feelings on the subject of "POTTER BLOODY POTTER".

"He is a lively fellow, isn't he?" said Dumbledore contentedly. "Once he gets excited about something, he's like a freshly-uprooted mandrake." He chuckled.

"Professor, shouldn't we do something about...that?" Hermione asked, speaking for the first time since entering the office, indicating the body on the floor.

"Oh yes, quite so," Dumbledore replied. "I'll ask Hagrid to come and fetch it - I'm sure Buckbeak will enjoy it far more than the students, regardless of how the House Elves might think to serve it."

"Professor Dumbledore," Sirius started "First off, I can't thank you enough for your help in proving me innocent. We really couldn't have done it without your superb oratory abilities." Dumbledore waved a hand.

"No trouble at all, my boy."

"And secondly, as I'm sure you know, Lily and James made me Harry's godfather, and guardian if ever anything were to happen to them. I'd like, with your permission, for Harry to come and live with me when I've sorted out the house and everything." Sirius looked over at Harry and smiled. Harry felt his heart swell.

"I'm sure that young mister Potter would be delighted to visit you during the holidays, but unfortunately until he turns seventeen, I really must insist that he continue to live with his Aunt and Uncle."

Harry felt his joy slip from his grasp like the Snitch in that particularly nasty Hufflepuff-Slytherin match last year.

"Why?" he cried.

"Goodness me, just look at the time!" said Dumbledore, a little louder than necessary. The portraits of previous headmistresses and headmaster which lined the office all began to murmur their assent, as he continued, "Professor Lupin, if you could escort these three to their common rooms, and insure that they don't fall afoul of our illustrious caretaker? Excellent, goodnight, all of you."

With that, they were dismissed, and Harry found himself heading out the door, not entirely of his own volition. Then they were stood once again the corridor, with the gargoyle firmly back in position.

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but at present I'm still thought of as a psychopathic murderer so I'd best be making myself scarce until word gets round. Then I'll see what I can do about squeezing some compensation out of the Ministry for wrongfully imprisoning me and all that twaddle. I'll see myself out, Remus." Sirius said, giving them all a cheery grin. "I'll see you soon, Harry." He quickly transformed into an 'Irish Wolfhound of exceptional pedigree', and with a last wag of his tail, he left them.

"What a chaotic evening! Still, all sorted now." said Lupin. Harry and Ron were still processing all that had happened, and Hermione was consumed in her thoughts. Without much talk, save Lupin cheerfully repeating that everything worked out just fine, they found themselves deposited one by one at the entrances to their common rooms. After being bid a 'goodnight' by Lupin, Harry located the barrel two from the bottom, middle of the second row, and tapped the lid in the rhythm of 'Helga Hufflepuff'. It swung open, and wearily Harry climbed through the passageway. He found the cosy common room thankfully deserted, and went on through the circular door that led to the boy's dormitory. Extremely tired after the night's exciting outing, he settled under his patchwork quilt, and, almost immediately, fell asleep.

* * *

On the last day of term, Harry received his exam results and was surprised to see that he had passed the lot, even Potions, despite the fact that Snape had referred to his last creation as being as useful a boil cure as a steaming pile of hippogriff dung. In fact, over the past week, the Professor had renewed his vitriolic bullying of Harry, having slacked off during his campaign to expose Lupin, to the point where he made no attempt to be subtle when deducting ludicrous amounts of points from Hufflepuff for somewhat preposterous reasons. Reasons like, for example; _breathing too loudly_, _blinking too often_, _stepping on a crack in a flagstone_, _being a bespectacled good-for-nothing_, and _having no friends_. Unsurprising then, that Hufflepuff had the lowest number of points when the end-of-term feast came around. Harry made his way down to the Great Hall, eager to enjoy one last good meal before heading 'home' to the solitary confinement that is life at Dursley's. Running only slightly late, he was just about to enter the Great Hall when someone called out to him.

"Harry!" Professor Dumbledore made his way purposefully down the main marble staircase.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asked, unsure why he had been delayed in his pursuit of good food.

"Harry." the Headmaster replied, still a little too far away to speak at a normal level.

"Professor Dumbledore..?" said Harry, not wanting to allow an awkward silence to settle whilst the man reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Harry," said Dumbledore, finally close enough to hold a conversation "I enjoy a round or two of the name-shouting game as much as the next man, but I fear that if we keep this up we will be late for the feast."

Harry blinked a few times. Not capable of forming a coherent response to this slightly suspect logic, he opted instead to briefly nod his head.

"Anyway, Harry, my dear boy, the reason that I hailed you is that while you are looking remarkably smarter than usual, you are missing your wizard hat."

"Well, _fuck-nuggets_."

"Quite so, dear _folivora_, quite so, although I doubt that you'll find those on the menu tonight. Regardless, by happy coincidence I happen to have a spare wizard hat with me!"

He rummaged in his wenge-coloured robes, and drew out a dark piece of cloth. For a few brief moments he endeavoured to smoothen it out, but to no avail, before he plonked it unceremoniously on Harry's scruffy hair. He beamed at Harry, as if the boy were an animal that had just performed a particularly difficult trick, then opened the door, and shepherded him inside. Harry made his way over to the Hufflepuff table on the far left, and sat down with a noticeable gap between him and the nearest person on either side.

Dumbledore too reached the head table and took his place on the throne-like chair. His gaze swept the hall for a moment, then he said:

"Before we begin, I should inform you that a select few dishes at tonight's feast have been laced with a mixture of Babbling Beverage and Alihotsy Draught, to get the conversation started. Enjoy!"

At the clap of his hands, mouth-watering food appeared on all four tables, and Harry wasted no time in helping himself to every dish within reach. To his dismay he had barely taken a mouthful of steak and kidney pudding when his enjoyment was interrupted by the familiar dulcet tones of the Sorting Hat invading his mind.

"Goodness me darling, you _are_ a bit of a loner, aren't you? Sitting here all alone, and nobody's tried to speak to you all evening. Aren't you happy in Hufflepuff? Regardless, I stand by my decision - it truly is the best place for you. Not, you must understand, because you have any of the qualities valued by Hufflepuff - loyalty, honesty, or dedication - but simply because Helga Hufflepuff was famed for accepting any student, of any ability and heritage. And despite the inherently friendly nature of most of those in your house, the only friends you really have are, I would say, concerned far more with themselves than your social well being, if you know what I mean."

Harry had been so shocked at this intrusion that he had not yet tried to stop the Hat's mockery of him.

"I'm not a loner!" Harry said angrily, out loud, causing those sat nearest to him to shimmy slowly along the benches in the opposite direction. Remembering only then that it was generally best to communicate with the Hat in one's mind, Harry glanced round, awkwardly pretending as if he too were looking for the source of the one-sided conversation.

"Do you forget to breathe sometimes?" the Hat inquired, as if it were a serious question.

"_I don't have to take this!_" thought Harry, as he grabbed the offensive fabric. He was about to wrench it from his head when a voice he disliked hearing even more than Leslie Phillips' sounded in his ear.

"Potter," Professor Snape drawled with dangerous calm. "End-of-term feasts are formal events, to which full wizard robes will be worn at all times. This, of course, includes a wizard's hat." Harry possessed neither the perceptive skills nor the balls to point out that Snape himself was lacking a pointed hat, so instead he gulped. Snape moved closer still, his flowing black robes engulfing Harry, evocative of his barely restrained desire to smother the boy himself. "If, even for a moment, you do not adhere to the dress code, I will ensure that every detention you receive next year will be served with me, scraping sloth brains out of decaying barrels - I believe that your head of house will be needing copious quantities of Dragon-Dung Fertiliser, of which they are of course a key ingredient. And trust me when I say this; you will get _a lot_ of detentions." The next moment, the vindictive Potions Master was gone.

"You've about as much backbone as the Giant Squid, you know that?" the Hat said smugly.

Harry cursed the tattered hat with every fibre of his being. And Snape, for good measure. He tried to shut out whatever else the Hat had to say, and focus on his dinner, but found his concentration wavering as the Hat rifled through his memories. Instead of the peace he sought, he was instead reminded of a number of humiliating encounters with Aunt Marge, the time he incorrectly tapped the rhythm to enter Hufflepuff common room and subsequently smelt of vinegar for the next week, and his eyes being 'as green as a freshly pickled toad'. Eventually, as the remaining platters of dessert vanished, Dumbledore stood and the chatter subsided.

"Now that we've all had our fill, it is time to announce the winner of this year's House Cup!"

This was hardly news that needed announcing in Harry's opinion: Slytherin's colours hung down from the ceiling and were draped across every wall. A self-congratulatory cheer went up from the Slytherin table table.

"Yes, very well done Slytherin, very well done indeed." said Dumbledore. "However, just before we present the Cup, I have a few, last minute points to award." Students and teachers alike looked baffled. Harry sat up - surely he wasn't going to pull that shit again?

Over the muttering, Dumbledore continued. "Firstly, to Mister Ronald Weasley for personally contributing very little to the story, but nevertheless providing an essential plot point, I award 20 points." After a few seconds, quiet, puzzled applause came from the Slytherin table.

"Secondly, to Miss Hermione Granger for remaining level-headed in the face of utter lunacy, I award 20 points."

"And lastly, to Mister Harry Potter, for being one of the best Name-Shouters that has walked these halls in recent years, I award 237 points!" Those sat at the Hufflepuff table looked at Harry in a new light. Their eyes shone as they clapped and cheered, some even patting Harry on the back.

"You're not the fastest broom on the pitch, so incase you hadn't worked it out, Hufflepuff now has the most points" the Sorting Hat informed Harry. A slow smile crept onto the boy's face, and he shouted along with the rest of his House.

"And now" Dumbledore called over the din "I believe a change of decoration to be in order!" With a clap of his hands, the elegant banners of silver and green disappeared to be replaced with Hufflepuff's slightly moth-eaten black and gold. A fourth-year girl who had clearly decided that Harry was no longer a social leper leaned closer to him and said,

"As Hufflepuff wins so rarely no-one ever bothers to look after our banners, and we've always figured our chances of winning to be so low that it was never worth buying new ones!" Whilst this was interesting, Harry didn't particularly care - everyone just seemed so happy!

"Hufflepuff wins the House Cup!" shouted Dumbledore, also clapping enthusiastically. A few seats along from him, Professor Sprout was eating a bagel dipped in pecan ice cream and garnished with a few strands of silly string in celebration. The whole Hufflepuff table stood and threw their hats in the air. Harry was about to do the same (a little behind as usual) when he noticed the malicious look Snape was giving him and decided to pass off the movement as a stretch.

That night as he packed, Harry felt quite content. Even with the looming return of the Dursleys into his everyday life on the horizon, the year had ended on a high note, and it could only get better when he returned to school in September.

* * *

As he boarded the train the next morning, Harry spotted Professor Lupin stowing his tattered trunk. After ensuring his own was well out of the way, and with his initials visible so that people could not possibly mistake his trunk for their own and accidentally take his things (for this had somehow happened without fail on every trip taken on the Hogwarts Express), Harry shimmied over to his teacher.

"Professor Lupin!" Harry smiled up at the man he so admired. He did not, however, know what to say next. In fact, he hadn't thought any further than his greeting, and truth be told the fact that any thought at all had gone into this conversation was surprising. Still, it's of no matter.

"Harry, excellent, I was hoping I'd see you before we took off - so many students here that I could hardly hope to find you amongst all this hustle and bustle! Children all look so similar, have you noticed? I can barely tell them apart, let alone remember all their names. But you, Harry, I wanted to tell you that I am extremely proud of all you have accomplished this year."

Harry blushed. "I didn't really do much.." he said modestly.

"True, but it seemed like an appropriate thing for a teacher to say to his favourite student. Or at least, a student whose name I don't forget." Lupin continued to smile, as if offering the highest of praise. "And, Harry, before I do forget," he fished inside his ropes, drawing out the Marauder's Map and offering it to Harry. "I want to return this to you. As I'm no longer a teacher, I can act irresponsibly without legal repercussions, and I just know that you'll make good use of it."

Harry's brain caught up. "No longer a teacher? Why not?" he asked.

"Well Harry," Lupin sighed "I resigned. To be honest with you this year has rather taken its toll on me. Having Professor Snape harass me at every opportunity, working mainly with colleagues who aren't qualified to feed a flobberworm, and being surrounded by unruly children...well, let's just say that perhaps teaching wasn't the best career move for me."

"But you're the best teacher we've ever had!" said Harry, in the vain hope that this statement might trump all the problems.

"The bar has been set pretty low." Lupin commented dryly. "But, no, Harry, I need to move on, for the sake of the plot. I've got an interview at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in two days, so with any luck I can put this year behind me and put my considerable skills to use there." Seeing Harry's forlorn look, he added "But this isn't the end Harry, we'll see each other again, I'm sure of it." With one last smile at Harry, Lupin walked down the corridor a ways, and then shuffled into a free compartment.

Harry found Hermione and Ron three carriages down from his bag. Shutting the door, he told them about Lupin's resignation.

"I'm not surprised." said Hermione. The other two looked to her to explain. "Well, being on the receiving end of Snape's ridiculous crusade, dealing with escaped convicts, and killing rat-men are probably all not in the job description when you apply to teach."

Ron nodded.

"I wouldn't want to work in pest control either." he said, having focused only the last part of the explanation. "I s'pose you're right. He could easily have been injured on that night in the Shack, and that bloody tree! Nearly had my eye out on the way to the tunnel. Why'd anybody plant something like that anyway?" he demanded.

"Honestly, haven't you read _Hogwarts: A History_? It was planted without permission in 1971, (though the culprits were never identified) as what was assumed to be a prank. Now we know it was really to cover up the entrance to the secret passageway."

"It's pretty dangerous." said Harry. "Why didn't Dumbledore have it removed?"

"You might not have noticed Harry, but the school and grounds aren't exactly what you'd call a safe learning environment. Think about it! We've got the Forbidden Forest teeming with dangerous creatures, staircases that move without warning, and a sport which legally includes bashing iron balls at the players. So a tree that attacks people fits right in, really." She paused to allow Harry to take this in.

"Also, Dumbledore isn't the most diligent person when it comes to running a school, let alone student safety. As long as none of us die, it's not an issue."

"Pettigrew died." Ron pointed out.

"Students, Ron, the students." said Hermione exasperatedly. "You'll remember though, that Dumbledore didn't even bat an eye when he saw Pettigrew. Doesn't that tell you that he's a few currants short of a fruitcake?" Ron shrugged. After that, the conversation became considerably lighter, mainly due to Ron's ability to chatter inanely about his Chocolate Frog Card Collection which, he claimed, could win a duel against any opponent.

Harry enjoyed the few hours he had left with his friends, but at last, the scarlet engine pulled into the station. Hauling his trunk (only missing his best quill and all the money he had in his purse) off the train and through the barrier, Harry was surprised to see Uncle Vernon there waiting for him. Last year he had not shown up, and Harry had made his slow way to Privet Drive over a period of several days. Uncle Vernon scowled, clearly disappointed to see him in one piece.

"Hurry up, then. What are you smiling for, boy?" he asked Harry.

"I've got a godfather!" Harry told him excitedly. "He said I can go stay with him over the holidays."

"Good!" barked Uncle Vernon. "The sooner the better. Why can't you go now?"

"He's a convicted mass-murderer. But as soon as he's cleared, I can visit him." Harry said brightly.

Harry was sure that it wouldn't be long until he could say goodbye to the Dursley's for good, that soon it would just be him and Sirius. And with that happy thought, he trotted after Uncle Vernon to the car, convinced that change was just around the corner.

* * *

"_The authors' knowledge of the intricacies of potions-brewing rival that of a true master."_

_- Libatius Borage, potioneer, in The Practical Potioneer_

"_Thrilling stuff, as ever. We here at the Prophet wish them luck."_

_- Barnabus Cuffe, editor, Daily Prophet_


	4. Waking Nightmare

In the Garden Cottage on the Riddle Estate, Frank Bryce lived a lonely existence. The once-splendid manor had gone to wrack and ruin, as owner after owner had been forced to leave following mysterious incidents that invariably ended up in hospital beds. The family for which the house was named - Riddle - had all died near fifty years ago in a curious incident in the night-time. They had been found dead, likely murdered, and it was Frank (who was then, as he is now, in charge of maintaining the gardens of the house) who was the prime suspect. However, due to an extreme lack of physical evidence, and the bumbling incompetence of the local constabulary, Frank was released and never charged. Nor, for that matter, was anyone else. Whilst Frank escaped any legal repercussions, the inhabitants of Little Hangleton were not so lenient. There was no doubt in their minds that Frank was guilty as a puppy sitting next to a pile of poo, and in such times of shock and panic, the mob rules. However, the villagers were not even remotely successful in serving up their own brand of justice, as the mob they formed to catch Frank was made of a combination of the decrepit members of the Neighbourhood Watch and the inhabitants of the local retirement home. They padded round after him in fluffy slippers and quilted dressing gowns, some carrying rolled up newspapers or a particularly lethal pair of knitting needles. Invariably, they rapidly tired of the chase (after about a hundred metres) and abandoned their pursuit, grumbling about how they'd get him next time. There was a general shaking of fists, and a rattling of dentures. For his part, Frank was barely aware of the golden oldies following him, or the villagers' consensus that he was a murderer. He returned to live the in Garden Cottage, and continued to tend the garden. All was well. The scar had not pained Ha-_wait a second, wrong one. Come back later._

And so it was, that fifty years on, the once beautiful grounds were overrun with weeds, and ivy riddled the trees and the house's façade. At the tender age of seventy, Frank was frail and near deaf, with his sense of awareness lost along with his faded youth. As such, it was hardly surprising that the hardy plants ruled the garden. But to Frank, the grounds were a picture of elegance and order. Poor Frank had lost a few of his marbles, though he still enjoyed a game of solitaire. He would spend his days outside, admiring his work, and holding conversations with the plants, in the sure knowledge that they replied. One evening, following a very intense debate with one of the rhododendrons, Frank was readying himself for bed when he chanced to look up at the Riddle House, noticing at once a flickering light coming from one of the upper windows. If, as he suspected, it were a fire, then the house would burn down, taking his precious garden along with it. Concerned only for the flora, and forgetting that an old man who was not carrying any water would most likely die of smoke inhalation, Frank booted up and made his way over to the house as fast as his arthritic knees would allow. He found the long unused servants door, which opened into the kitchen, and unlocked it. The smell of damp and mildew assaulted his nostrils as he groped his way in the dark across the kitchen, through the doors and to the foot of the main staircase. He shuffled up the steps, and reached the first floor landing - at the end of the corridor to his right was the source of the fire. Approaching the door, he saw it to be a ajar, letting the light spill out. As he advanced, he prepared his war cry and gripped his walking stick a little more firmly. He'd show that fire. Then, readying himself for his charge of the fire brigade, he stopped. The conflagration was, he saw, contained in the grate and there were voices coming from the room. Thoroughly perplexed, he hedged closer, and strained to listen.

"My Lord, this is pure exposition. Forgive me, but is it really necessary?" a man's voice asked.

"Nevermind that, my faithful servant." a high, rasping voice replied. "Move me closer to the fire - I am greatly wearied after my journey." Footsteps sounded, followed by the scrape of a chair across the floor. A young man with fair hair came into view, pushing what had once been a richly upholstered chair closer to the fire.

"How long do you plan to stay here, my Lord?" asked the blond man. He had turned around, and Frank could now see his scrawny, pale face through his cataracts.

"For as long as it takes. The whole year, if I must. We will not be disturbed here." said the voice from the chair.

"That is not what worries me - it's the level of decay and dust present: it could cause rhinitis! Imagine the inflammation, without me here to care for you-"

"Your concern is touching," the high voice cut in "but unwarranted. Considering that I am taking daily doses of unicorn blood, I highly doubt a bout of the sniffles will affect me overmuch." The pale man still looked anxious. "And," the voice in continued in resignation "I'm sure the house elf will busy herself with cleaning the place." This seemed to satisfy the man. "You must not be distracted from your task. As soon as the Quidditch World Cup is over, assume your position. You have taken good care of Bertha Jorkins' wand?"

The blond man nodded, then spoke. "And what of Bertha herself?"

"I killed her, of course. Although she was of tremendous use to me, she had fulfilled her purpose. About as intelligent as a troll too: convincing her that I was a bardha was tragically easy. From there, breaking through the memory charm and extracting all the pertinent information from what remained of her mind was a walk in the woods. By the time that we had reached your home the brain damage was totally irreversible. But how fortunate it was that she chose to holiday in Albania, and went wandering in the very forest I called home."

"Yes, quite the contrivance, my Lord." answered the man dryly. "Though what I meant was that surely someone will notice her absence?"

"Of course they will! A government official going missing is hardly going to be ignored and attributed to their scatterbrained nature, is it? Especially with her department organising the World Cup - everyone in Magical Games and Sports is going to be under scrutiny and extreme pressure, so yes, I would say that her glaring absence will be very much noted." The rasping quality of the voice had now reached 'sore throat being treated with a mixture of 24-grit sandpaper and Piedmont gravel' level.

"Truly, your lordship is a masterful and insightful strategist." said the blond, without even a hint of sarcasm.

Frank took a step back, what remained of his mind racing. Clearly these two people were insane, he telepathically mentioned to a nearby houseplant that had rather outgrown its pot - they were chatting about house elves, wands, Albanian mythology, and murder as if they were perfectly acceptable everyday topics.

The high voice was speaking again, and Frank listened intently.

"-especially now that my wand is returned to me. Trust that idiot Wormtail to hide it at our old headquarters. But you, my faithful servant, I know that you will not disappoint me, you will deliver what I need. And soon, I will regain my true body, and at last be rid of Harry Potter!"

So intent was he on his eavesdropping, Frank did not notice the enormous snake slithering past him until it went through the door. Unable to decide whether this was a bizarre dream or not, Frank thought it best to go back to bed. Then the strangest sounds of hissing and spitting came from within the room, as if the unseen man were trying to converse with the snake. Talking to plants was all very well, but expecting animals to reply? It was definitely time to leave.

"Nagini says that we have a guest, why don't you show him in?" the voice directed its servant. Before Frank could think to make a move, the door was flung open. The man with a mop of fair hair stood in the doorway, and on closer inspection Frank saw that his face was lined in a way that was completely incongruous with his age. His eyes took in the startled Frank with a manic gleam. Still, he stood aside and held the door open, bowing the old man into the drawing room. Frank limped inside, and as he heard the door click shut behind him, realised in a rare moment of lucidity that he most likely would not make it out alive. The thought steeled him, and he prepared to make his last stand.

"Well?" said the voice from the chair. Frank thought that perhaps he hadn't heard all of the question. He looked round at the pale man, who shrugged and looked equally confused. Frank briefly considered trying pose as a pizza delivery boy, but then reasoned that someone who claimed to drink unicorn blood probably wouldn't order a pizza.

A few too many seconds had passed without a reply, so Frank settled for a simple "Yes."

A pause, then "You think you can beat me at my own game, Muggle? Barty, darling, turn me so that I may face my opponent." Crouch hurried to do as he was bid. Frank was really lost now, though this feeling was displaced by absolute terror once the chair, or rather its occupant, faced him.

"Now, Muggle-" before the thing in the chair could say a word more, Frank rushed forward, cane in hand, and began raining blows on the scabby, grey mass that could barely be considered a body. Unfortunately, despite his valiant efforts, he had not landed more than three hits before a jet of bright green light hit him, and he crumpled to the floor.

Two hundred miles away, Harry Potter let out the old man's unreleased scream.

* * *

Years of surviving the Dursley's had taught Harry to make himself as unnoticeable as possible when living in Number 4, Privet Drive. As soon as he became aware he was the source of the very shrill scream, he changed the pitch of the sound to a drawn-out yowl, in hopes that all those woken by it might now think that a cat was endeavouring to form a choir. He listened keenly for movement in the house, for any sign that the Dursleys' were disturbed. In this moment, he wished Uncle Vernon had soundproofed Harry's room, as he had threatened. A surprising amount of money had been spent on Harry's room. Not, you must understand, to make it comfortable, or to decorate it in a manner that suited Harry's tastes (which consisted mainly of a passion for branches and vines from which he could hang with ease and comfort), but so that it was a replica of a solitary confinement cell. Once covered with Aunt Petunia's garish choice of wallpaper, the walls were now white-washed, and the floor was cool with rough concrete. One tiny barred window, high in a corner of room, allowed in a slither of light and fresh air. A rickety iron bed topped with a paper-thin mattress stood in one corner, in the other a toilet and sink. The room's contents and occupant were hidden behind a solid steel door, kept locked and only the hatch opened to admit meals. This door in turn was behind a second white, wooden door, very much in keeping with the rest of the house, so that the crease of imperfection in the Dursleys' lives was very much tucked away.

Harry lay on his back, his heart pounding and his scar burning. He had been woken by a vivid dream, a terrifying one considering his current state. He tried to remember the details before they slipped away… _there had been three people, two talking, plotting_… _a huge snake_… _the local shop had run out of malt loaf_… _a deranged man talking to plants_… _his knees were made of cheese_… _the rasping voice of_… Voldemort. Harry blinked. How could it be? They were always well stocked. But it had been so in the dream. As for his cheese knees, perhaps his unconscious mind was trying to tell him something. And then there was Voldemort and some unknown man who had a plan… it was unclear what, but it sounded as though it required a lot of preparation… and waiting.

Harry shook his head. Knowing his luck, the plan had something to do with him - Voldemort seemed to have something of an obsession with Harry. He sat up and put on his glasses, focusing instead on the sparse room. As soon as he had arrived home for the summer, his trunk with all his wizard-worldly possessions had been locked away. Harry had learnt from past experience not to bring Hedwig back to Privet Drive - instead he had sent her to live with Ron for the summer. Harry himself had been cooped up in his room for four weeks, deprived of any human contact. It was enough to drive anyone round the bend. But it appeared that no severe psychological damage had been done (at least by this stint in solitary) to the young Harry Potter, the reason being that he had spent his stay almost entirely as sloth. Every day he sprawled about the room, curious about the three unchanging objects, as though encountering them for the first time, changing back only to sleep and eat - he had found that human food did not agree with a folivore. In truth, he had hoped to have left the Dursleys' before this point in the holidays. His newfound godfather, Sirius, had all but promised that Harry could go and live with him. However Dumbledore had immediately vetoed this idea because of reasons. Harry had been unable to discuss this issue with the headmaster, nor was he able to come up a satisfactory reason of his own. Why would anyone insist upon forcing Harry to stay with relatives who wanted him their house about as much as they did rising damp? Harry had never discovered who had been responsible for placing him in the Dursleys' 'care', or why after he had made known the treatment he received from them (behaviour which would have appalled social services) no mention was ever made of removing him. His next hope was Ron, one of his two only friends. They had discussed the possibility of Harry staying with Ron's family, especially so that Harry could go to the Quidditch World Cup with them. But as Harry had no means of contacting either Ron or Sirius, nor leave this room, he could do jack shit to improve his situation.

Harry's day passed like any other: he received two meagre meals for breakfast and lunch and he hung for a good six hours upside down from sink. Then at about four o'clock, give or take a few picoseconds (Harry was becoming highly skilled at the art of the 'guesstimate'), there was a jarring break from routine. The heavy metal door opened. So unexpected was this that Harry barely had the presence of mind to turn himself human before the door was wide. As it was, his hurried transformation meant that his was still clutching the base of the sink, like some porcelain tree hugger. Uncle Vernon's broad mass stood the frame, squinting at Harry in the scant light, fortunately unable to see the muzzy look in his nephew's eyes.

"We are going." he informed Harry, who peered up at him uncomprehending. "On holiday" he added irritatedly, as if no clarification should be necessary. Harry did not think for a moment that this trip included him. Still a little out of it, he could not understand why he was being told this. Uncle Vernon gave him no time to get his brain in gear as he soon carried on talking.

"Your _things_" he spat as if the objects in question were too vile to mention "are outside - hidden in the shed. Do not let anyone catch even a glimpse of them, or you. Understand?" Harry did not understand. Uncle Vernon huffed indignantly. "Well come on, shake a leg. We've got to get to the airport." He stood aside and indicated that Harry should get out sharpish. Dazed, Harry saw no real alternative, so he got up, and, legs stiff with disuse, walked out and down the stairs, clinging desperately to the bannister as his limbs seized up.

Outside, he blinked, adjusting his eyes to the brightness. Aunt Petunia and his cousin, Dudley, were already in the car. His aunt did not deign to look at him, as if by ignoring him he might cease to exist. Dudley, on the other hand, was looking directly at Harry, his hands and nose pressed up against the car window with a look of wicked glee adorning his pudgy face. Uncle Vernon stepped out after Harry and made a show of slamming the door and then checking that it was firmly locked. He nodded, satisfied, then craned only his head to look down at Harry. He gave him what was supposed to be smirk, but looked more like a spasm, and then went to the car. Without a word, he fastened his seatbelt, started the engine, and backed out the driveway.

Harry watched his so-called family leave. In the rear window, Dudley had positioned himself to look back at Harry, his eyes wide with excitement, and his head bobbing up and down with each speed bump. The car turned a corner, and the Dursleys, and Dudley's mocking glare, were gone.

Harry was baffled. Surely he'd misunderstood? They didn't mean to leave him here, locked out of any shelter (save the shed), with no food or water, for two weeks did they? There were limits even to their cruelty, though they made no secret about wanting Harry to be as miserable as possible. Yes, they had left him to fend for himself at King's Cross last year, and 'forgotten' to feed him for three days once… but this took the proverbial biscuit. Harry kept staring at the corner where the car had vanished, as if they might suddenly return. But they did not, and Harry was alone.

* * *

"_Harry Potter Secretly Psychic! Boy wonder reveals his hidden powers in portentous late-night bedtime incident! Oh, wait, you wanted a quote about this?"_

_- Doris Crockford, reporter, Rumours!_

"_Very good, very good - I particularly liked all the bits with me in it."_

_- Gilderoy Lockhart, in a letter to the Daily Prophet from his hospital bed._


	5. Mission: Riduckulous

Harry's first thought about his current predicament was '_oh cock'_. Then he chided himself for not being more imaginative, and also for his defeatist attitude. Despite his many flaws, Harry was nothing if not highly adaptable. He might not often come up with the most practical or effective solution, but he undeniably had his own highly unique way of dealing with problems. It said as much in his school report that arrived two days into the summer, which Uncle Vernon had promptly burnt, as if it were contaminated. Harry's teachers commented that while he was often unfocused in class, he did find 'unique' answers - with the exception of Professor Snape who had written a seventeen page essay analysing every aspect of Harry's worthless nature. Whereas another in Harry's position might go to a neighbour and ask for the spare key, or call the police to report neglect, Harry's first thought was of how to contact the wizarding world. That was simple. He reached the shed, army crawling along the hedge that lined the garden to avoid detection, and tried the door. As he'd half expected, it was locked. His Uncle was hardly going to make life easy for him, far from it. He decided to treat this as a sort of military training exercise, for he knew that he would have to be prepared for everything that the Dark Lord could throw at him, including locked garden sheds. He considered smashing the lock with one of Aunt Petunia's hideous garden gnomes - a row of the demented looking ornaments watched Harry struggle - and although destroying their perpetually cheery faces would make Harry feel better, it would achieve little else. The only resource he had then, was his animagus form - truly it could solve any problem! Going round the side, where the wood was slightly rotting (unbeknownst to Uncle Vernon), Harry transformed. Using his long sharp claws, he pried at the soft wood until he had made a hole large enough to crawl through. This would have been but the work of moments had he not stopped to snack every few minutes on the Dursleys' immaculately kept privet hedge.

Inside at last, and returned to his human form, Harry was reunited with his dragonhide trunk containing his spellbooks, cauldron, wizard robes, wand, and a plethora of rubbish that he'd never quite gotten around to sorting through. Clearly Uncle Vernon wasn't as terrified of Harry's wizarding objects as he made out, or perhaps he had far too much time on his hands, because both the trunk and Harry's Firebolt were embalmed in red biohazard tape. After divesting them of this nuisance, Harry rummaged through the clutter to fish out his beloved enchanted conch shell which could bring order to any situation. The best option, he decided, was to try to reach Ron. Although Hermione would most likely try help him too, it seemed impolite to impose on a Muggle family. The Weasleys, however, were used to chaos and an excess of children, and had welcomed Harry into their home once before. Ideally, Harry would have liked to talk to Sirius, but firstly, he had no clue where in London he was; sixthly, they had neglected to give Sirius the enchanted seashell of his choice; and fourthly, to reach London would mean another spine-tingling trip on the Knight Bus.

Harry brought the conch near his mouth and breathed softly on the opening. At once the shell started to hum lightly, until Harry spoke Ron's name into it. Then it began to vibrate gently in the familiar rhythm recognisable to all Muggles as the dreaded 'dialling tone'. Moments passed and Harry feared that he would get no answer. Then,

"What in the name of Merlin's Saggy Left Tit is this?" said a confused but cheerful voice. A voice that was certainly not Ron's, to our protagonist's consternation.

"Hello?" Harry said cautiously "Sorry to bother you.. is Ron there? It's Harry, uh, Harry Potter."

"Harry! Yes, yes, my dear boy, how good to hear from you. We were hoping you'd be in touch." Harry could almost hear the smile on the other end. It could only be Mr Weasley.

"Yeah, sorry… could I talk to Ron, please?" Harry asked.

"Ron?" said Mr Weasley in all siriusness.

Harry was silent for a moment. "Yes… your son? Ron?"

"I have no son." came the deadpan reply. Harry gaped slightly, his face slack. How exactly was he meant to respond to that? Five seconds on, the silence was becoming awkward.

"I'm only joshing Harry, only pulling your leg!" said Mr Weasley with a repressed chuckle. Then he said something that sounded suspiciously like 'Wish I weren't. Honestly, seven? What's wrong with getting a dog?' but these mutterings were so quiet that Harry couldn't be sure. "Anyway," Mr Weasley continued "I'm afraid Ron's not here! I sent him and the rest of them out to fetch some water samples, and they won't be back for a few hours, seeing as I gave them all colanders."

"Oh." was Harry's thought-provoking response to this Xenophilian statement.

"Harry, dear, you will be joining us for the World Cup final, won't you? We've got the tickets already.." Mr Weasley trailed off, but sounded eager that Harry come with them.

"Well, you see Mr Weasley, my uncle and aunt have gone away, so I'm on my own and I don't-"

"Say no more Harry!" Mr Weasley cut him off. "You're at home, yes? I'll be there in two ticks." And with that there was the recognisable sound of a marginella hitting a table, and the voice was gone. Harry stood in the dank shed as if admiring the artistic contrast between his sprawling clutter and the neatly organised gardening tools, looking a little puzzled. Then, just outside, there sounded a faint pop.

"Harry?" Mr Weasley called, and the faint rustling of footsteps moved toward the front door.

"Over here, Mr Weasley!" Harry said, giving no thought as to how silly it must seem for him to be locked in shed. A shot of yellowish light glowed round the edge of the door, which then swung open.

"Excellent hiding place Harry! I never would have guessed if you hadn't given yourself away." Mr Weasley beamed at him. Harry just nodded. "Excellent, most excellent," Mr Weasley kept saying as he magically gathered up Harry's scattered belongings and put them back in the trunk. He snapped the lid shut and then levitated the chest out of the shed. Meanwhile Harry stood by watching gormlessly, only moving to pick up his broom and join Mr Weasley in the garden when prompted by the man in question.

"So, sneaking out while your Aunt and Uncle are away, eh? Very crafty, very covert. I like it." Mr Weasley sounded like he was having the time of his life. "It's like we're on a secret mission, Harry," he continued "ah! But I mustn't call you that - we need code names! You're Bambi, and I shall be…" he trailed off, searching for the perfect name "Rubber Ducky!" he announced. "Right, got everything? We really shouldn't linger in enemy territory."

Remembering what Uncle Vernon had told him, Harry said "We mustn't be seen by the neighbours." Mr Weasley nodded gravely and said "Right you are Bambi, I was careless." He backed into the shadow of the hedge, hefting Harry's trunk with him, and indicated with sharp head movement for Harry to do the same. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Now Bambi, would you agree that the most stealthy option for us to reach The Warren," (here he winked) "is to Apparate?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so Mr Weas-"

"Excuse me?" Mr Weasley interrupted sharply.

"I mean, Rubber Ducky." Harry said quickly "But I can't apparate and I'm not of age."

"Roger that Ha-Bambi," said Mr Weasley, all the while glancing around, eyes narrowed, to check that they hadn't been spotted. "although perhaps 'Rubber' would be less of a mouthful... Not to worry, we can use Side-Along Apparition."

"Is that allowed Mr Weas-Rubber?" asked Harry. "Isn't it meant to be used in emergencies?"

"Indubitably!" bellowed Mr Weasley, nodding vigorously. "And what qualifies as an emergency more than this? Deep undercover, surrounded by hostile forces, with no other means of escape!" his speech frenzied now, spittle flying far and wide in his vigour. Harry considered this. He supposed they were 'undercover' in that they were pretending to be Muggles, and that leaving Privet Drive by others means, such as flying or Floo, was impractical. But the only 'hostile forces' he could see were Mrs Figg's horde of cats which prowled around the neighbourhood. It seemed Mr Weasley did not expect a reply as he proffered his arm.

"Hold on as tightly as you can Bambi, and do not let go." he said. Harry took a step closer and gripped Mr Weasley's forearm with one hand, the other holding his Firebolt. The next moment Mr Weasley lurched away from him and Harry was surrounded by blackness. He felt as though he were being pressed very forcefully through a tiny tube, being entirely compressed. And then with a 'pop' he was back on solid ground. He doubled over, feeling sick, but still in once piece, and when he looked up, he saw the very welcome sight of the Burrow. Surrounded by rolling hills and fields rippling with tall grass, the isolated house was as crooked as ever, with even a few more precariously placed extensions than last time. Mr Weasley slapped Harry on the back with enough force to make the boy stumble.

"Here we are, Bambi!" he said unnecessarily. "Let's get inside and have have a brew." With that he shifted Harry's trunk once again, and made for the front door, passing the garage and chicken coop, and up the small stone steps. Inside, Harry found Mr Weasley in the kitchen, the tea already brewing. He stood in the doorway like a lemon, until Mr Weasley, having finished laying out a huge tray of biscuits, turned round.

"Your broom, Bambi," he said, clearly too invested in their spy scenario to realise that here codenames were no longer necessary. "I'll take that and put it in the broom shed. You pop yourself down," he patted a heavily cushioned chair at the head of kitchen table "and make yourself at home." He had the broomstick and was out the back door before Harry could form a coherent thought.

The house was eerily quiet. Harry listened for footsteps on the floors above, or chatter from the garden, but the only sound of life was the incessant clucking of the chickens. Harry poked his head into the living room, just to be sure. As expected, there was no one there, but he did see the Weasley's clock which monitored all their whereabouts. Mrs Weasley's golden hand, unsurprisingly, was pointed at 'Work', as was Percy's. All the younger Weasley children were indicated to be 'Lost'. Harry heard Mr Weasley's cheerful humming of '_Love Is All Around' _by _Wet Wet Wet_ as he came back to the house, and he hurried to sit in the allocated chair. The kettle began to whistle just as Mr Weasley stepped inside, and Harry soon had a large cup of steaming tea and the mountain of biscuits in front of him.

"Help yourself, Bambi." Mr Weasley encouraged him, selecting a chocolate chip one. He nodded in approval as Harry tried to eat three at a time, his cheeks filled like a hamster's, and delighted in asking Harry questions the moment he'd taken a bite, or a sip of tea, so that he choked on his mouthful in his hurry to answer. Harry could now see from where Ron's talent for long and trivial conversation had come; Mr Weasley talked about everything from how photogenic garden gnomes were to the latest style articles in Spella Weekly, asking Harry's opinion on each and every subject. At one point he suggested rigging up a harness for Harry, so that they could lower him down for a surprise entrance at dinner. Each time the teapot was empty, Mr Weasley would spring up to make another pot, gesturing at the Weasleys' second peculiar clock, the hand of which was stuck at 'time to make tea'. Then, after a good two hours, Harry heard the sounds of feet traipsing through the front yard, and loud grumbling. Mr Weasley heard them too, and looked up, startled, mid-sentence.

"They're back." he whispered, before leaping into action. He grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from the counter, which he had purposefully left downstairs when transporting the trunk to Ron's bedroom, and threw it over Harry and his ninth cup of tea. He got to the front door just as the voices stopped outside.

"Who's there?" Mr Weasley asked. There was a pronounced sigh from outside.

"It's us, Dad." came the tired reply, either Fred or George.

"Names, I need names. Carelessness costs lives." said Mr Weasley, seemingly serious.

After an irritated pause, the voice outside said "It's George, Fred, Ron, and Ginny."

"And the password?" Mr Weasley asked. There was a muttered debate outside, until Ginny spoke.

"Swordfish." she said clearly. Mr Weasley's mouth twitched and his eyes shifted from side to side. But it seemed to satisfy him and he unlocked the door to admit his rather grouchy and bedraggled children. They sloped inside and Ron made to sit on Harry's invisible lap.

"Ah-ah! No, not there!" Mr Weasley shouted, stopping Ron just in time. "That place is...reserved." Ron looked startled only for a moment, before accepting this fact without comment. "Look at you all, you're quite a mess! Off you go, upstairs, clean yourselves up before dinner." Mr Weasley smiled firmly. The four Weasley children all glanced at the stove which was clearly not in use, and noted the distinct lack of food anywhere in the kitchen. But knowing better than to protest, they shuffled upstairs, now arguing about who was going to use the bathroom first. Mr Weasley watched them go, and once they were out of sight, rushed over the front window. His eyes lit up.

"Perfect timing!" he said. Harry did not think he meant his children arriving home. He could hear the rumble of a vehicle approaching, and then stopping just outside. Mr Weasley bounded out the door with a fistful of Muggle money. He was gone for a few minutes, chatting eagerly with the driver, then he came back, his arms full with boxes upon boxes of Papadom's Indian takeaway. He set them down on the kitchen table, then looked quickly at approximately where Harry's still-hidden head should be.

"I'm an excellent cook Bambi." he said, clearly feeling that his culinary skills were under suspicion. "But sometimes, you need a break. The stress of running a busy household, it can get too much, you understand?"

Harry nodded, then remembered he was invisible. "Yes, of course." he said, trying to placate him.

"One night off, I think I deserve that, don't you?" Mr Weasley continued as he set about prising the card lids off hot trays. He emptied the multitude of cartons into much more attractive bowls and placed them evenly on the table, before summoning the appropriate cutlery and crockery. Then he hurriedly scooped the dirty containers into a black bin bag, before vanishing the lot, obviously keen to dispose of the indisputable evidence that this meal had not been prepared by him.

"You just stay right there, Bambi." he said, although Harry had made no move to take off the Cloak. "Dinner time!" Mr Weasley called upstairs. "Bambi, how would you feel about being the centrefol-piece?" he asked. "We can even stick an apple in your mouth!" Luckily Mr Weasley did not have time to set up this borderline-12-rated scene as Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny entered the kitchen and took their places round the table. The front door opened and in walked two young men who could only be Bill and Charlie, whom Harry had heard much about, but never met. They too must have been out the house for the day, savvy by now of their father's pointless errands, although they arrived suspiciously quickly after Mr Weasley's announcement.

"Good day?" the shorter of the two newcomers asked. The younger Weasleys scowled in unison. There was however, still no sign of Mrs Weasley. As if reading Harry's thoughts, Ron asked,

"Aren't we waiting for Mum?" although his eyes were on the bowls of samosas, tandoori, and masala.

"Ah, you know your mother, Ron. She'll be back when they lock up the office. But I expect she'll go for a drink or two with her colleagues, it is the weekend after all…" Mr Weasley sounded only slightly bitter.

"And Percy?" asked Ginny, the only one to remember the second missing from their number.

"Oh, er, Percy...yes. Better grab another chair, Bill, would you?" Mr Weasley asked. All eyes round the table swiveled to the seemingly empty seat which Harry occupied. Nonetheless, Bill, the taller one, Harry noted, went to the living room and returned with a chair that looked even less stable than the rest. Once everyone was settled, and Mr Weasley had finished distributing glasses, he walked round to stand behind Harry's chair.

"And now," he said enthusiastically, drawing their attention "the mystery guest reveals himself!" With that he whipped the Invisibility Cloak off Harry (after having groped around in the air for a few moments), who was currently mid-yawn, in a single flourish. The reaction was instantaneous. Each of the Weasleys jumped back in their seats in shock, and Ron, who had just taken a large gulp of water, hawked his mouthful onto a pile of naan bread. Bill recovered first.

"Hi Harry, nice to finally meet you." he said, reaching over the table to shake Harry's hand.

"We've heard lots about you from Ron, pumpkin." said the one who had to be Charlie, as he followed suit. Ron, who was sitting next to Harry, finished choking on his water.

"Bloody hell, Harry! Why didn't you tell us you were there?"

* * *

"_Thanks for the plug - most appreciated, and you'll be getting your complimentary issue by owl in the next two days!"_

_- Formosia Davis, editor, Spella Weekly_

"_This story's better than a pig in a poke, and the authors have made a silk purse from a sow's ear, rather than simply the proverbial pig's instead."_

_- M. Amerinus, reporter, Daily Prophet_


	6. Masquerade Sexcapade

Dinner was a pleasant affair, after Mr Weasley had explained to his family that Harry's being there was a carefully coordinated surprise, which had required months of planning. Harry did not argue with this, and filled his plate with brightly coloured curries, avoiding the now soggy naan bread. Despite their initial shock, it seemed the Weasleys were all very pleased to have Harry among them, bombarding him with questions about his summer so far, the Dursleys, and schoolwork. When Harry mentioned that he had started none of the homework set over the holidays, Ron's face lit up.

"That's great!" he said with enthusiasm that seemed a little out-of-place "If both of us haven't done any Hermione will be sure to let us copy hers!" The discussion soon turned to Quidditch and the approaching World Cup final.

"It's going to be incredible this year, just you wait Harry. Have you ever been before?" Ron asked.

"Of course he hasn't, you shit-brained fuckwit." said Ginny "The World Cup is only on every four years." She went back to her chicken tikka. Ron looked a little stunned, but then he shrugged. He turned to Harry, his tone lower now, and said

"She's like that sometimes, started about a year ago. Happy as a lark one minute, the next she'll bite your head off. I think it's the hormones. Mum and Dad don't seem to care at all." Indeed Mr Weasley was smiling fondly at his only daughter. Ron cast another confused look at his sister, then returned his attention to Harry.

"Hey, Harry, did you bring your Firebolt with you?" he asked. Harry nodded. Ron's question had caught the twins attention too.

"That's what the Irish and Bulgarians will be playing on!" said Fred excitedly, or possibly George. "D'you think we might… could we, um… you know?" For once Harry cottoned on very quickly.

"Of course!" he said "I've got two green and three burgundy." The twins whoops of delight drowned out Harry's strange but generous offer of spare socks. After a dessert of ice cream (which Mr Weasley claimed to have found in the garage), Harry followed Ron up to his room on the fourth floor, feeling full and very tired. Ron's bedroom was just as Harry remembered it, small with a low, sloping ceiling, and the walls plastered with all of his duplicate Chocolate Frog Cards. When they entered, all those who inhabited their miniature portrait stood or waved - the ripple of movement over every wall was dizzying. Against the far wall was a sort of shrine, on which stood an ornate wooden box, inside which, Harry knew, Ron's prized Card collection was contained. Ron's school books and related items, deemed far less important, were half out his trunk, as though it had not been properly unpacked. Harry's own belongings were next to it. The already cramped room had been further filled with three hammocks, all arranged to make crossing the space as difficult as possible.

"Fred and George are in here too," said Ron, indicating the limp hammocks. "'cause Bill and Charlie have their room. And no one wants to share with Percy." He looked at Harry, an idea coming to him. "You could, if you like - Percy's got loads of room, a big double bed, a heated duvet…" Ron said brightly. Harry wasn't fooled.

"It's summer." Harry pointed out.

"A lava lamp? Wardrobe space? Your own toothbrush?" said Ron, trying to tempt Harry.

"I think he'll have brought his own toothbrush, Ron." said George as he came through the door, followed closely by Fred, who said, "I should hope he's brought his own toothbrush. I'm not sharing with three people!"

Ron finally accepted defeat. As Harry struggled into his hammock, he remembered that Hedwig was here; he could write to Sirius! Then he thought of his other possible contact.

"Ron, have you heard from Hermione at all?" he asked. Ron finished fluffing up his pillows, happy that he clearly had the best bed.

"Yeah, I wrote to her about a week ago, asking if she wanted to come to the final with us… she said she'd rather go watch naked troll wrestling. But I think she meant it in an affectionate way." After a pause he added "Don't worry though, she's coming here next week 'cause her parents are going on holiday, so we'll have plenty of time to nick her work."

And with the comforting thought that he was back where he belonged, with everything right in the world, Harry settled down to sleep, perchance to dream of more malt loaf.

Harry awoke to find himself in an unceremonious heap on the floor, George having tipped his hammock upside down. Ron, ever less fortunate, was woken by Fred pouring a bucket of water over his head. He let out an indignant and spluttered yell.

"Up, ye bilge-sucking rats! 'Less ye want to taste me whip!" said George, cracking a disturbingly realistic Cat O'Nine Tails for effect, before the pair of them scurried out the room.

"Those bastards!" cried Ron "Every single fucking morning they do that, since they've been sleeping here." He glared at the hammocks which he felt were to blame. But, not wanting to test for himself how real their whip was, he got up. The two went downstairs (Ron still dripping water and grumbling that it was nowhere near 19th September) following the smell of fresh coffee emanating from the kitchen.

"Good morning!" said a cheerful Mrs Weasley as they entered "Or should I say 'Ahoy!'" She laughed, not at all worse for wear after her late night. "Harry, how good to see you, I've been asking Ron all summer when he was going to invite you. Oh, and I am sorry about last night - slight crisis with an underage witch at a seafood restaurant, lobsters flying everywhere- oh, but I won't bore you with the details. Would you like some coffee dears?" she asked, already pouring out two large mugfuls. Harry accepted of steaming cup liquid as bitter as tar - not at all to his liking, but as there was no sugar on offer, he sucked it up. Sitting down with Ron, the newly delivered Daily Prophet headline caught his eye:

* * *

_**The Minister's Masquerade Sexcapade: When Will the Truth Come Out?**_

_**T**__oday, following hot on the trail of muttered rumour and hearsay, we at the Prophet can at last break the news of the Minister for Magic's scandalous visit to a gothic-themed Muggle sex club. Dear readers, I know that you've been gagging for the raunchy details of our bowler-hatted Minister's perversions, and it is my duty and my pleasure to share them with you now._

_**O**__n the 6th of June the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, was seen leaving 'Deviant', clearly hoping to go unnoticed to prevent this very sordid tale from ever seeing the light of day (this writer cannot help but wonder how many of the patrons of the aforementioned 'club' ever actually do see the light of day). However, unfortunately for our dear Minister, his inglorious retreat was seen by no less than thirty-two Muggles (all of whom have since been interviewed and obliviated)._

_**N**__athan Gormly, 63__**, **__one of the muggle passers-by, described the Minister as "very embarrassed, like he didn't want to be seen or something, but he was wearing a weird suit and a puke-green cloak so of course someone was bound to notice him." Evidently dressed to fit in with the quaint style of the club and its clientele, it would appear that Minister Fudge is a frequent visitor to this establishment, which does rather raise the question as to how many of his 'diplomatic meetings' were not in fact 'diplomacy' of a rather different kind._

_**I**__n response to this writer's enquiry as to whether or not he had seen the Minister before, Bergoglio Pignero,_ _the owner of the pawn-shop opposite said "Well, these guys all look alike - lonely, bit desperate, still in their suits. Yeah, I seen him around."_

_**G**__oing inside 'Deviant', one enters a dungeon straight out of the worst of Fifi LaFolle's vampiric novellas: there is an overabundance of plush velvet, ornate fireplaces, and candlelit rooms. The buxom hostess, Lady Morsia, renowned for greeting guests dressed in a lacy black corset and precious little else, recalls the night in question with great clarity. "It was a special event, VIP guests and all that, and everyone wore masks; it adds to the thrill, don't you think? Anyway, he appeared, almost from nowhere, but I assumed he must be on the list if he'd gotten in past Cerberus on the door. He seemed a bit nervous so I did everything in my power to make him feel at ease - two of my best girls and a private room to match! - he was in there for about two hours, so it can't've been all that bad!"_

_**H**__owever, the Minister's already-overworked Public-Relations department claims that Fudge's presence there was totally accidental and that an investigation is being undertaken to determine the cause of the mishap. Flustered, blundering, and red-faced, his Hat-ness is quoted as saying "It's just not true! Well, no, I was there, but I had to be polite of course, I couldn't just leave! But I was at Hogwarts, check with Dumbledore, there was a man- no, a rat! - well, a rat-man really - dead! Except that Pettigrew wasn't dead! But he was all over the place - on the floor, on me, everywhere, I had to get out!" What exactly we should make of this jumbled rambling none of us here can begin to fathom._

_**T**__he real question on everybody's lips today must surely be, 'is anyone buying this Ministry cover-up?" Too many times have there remarkably convenient explanations for unacceptable behaviour - who can forget Nobby Leach's shocking resignation in 1968? It was widely believed then that certain high-ups in the Ministry and other influential and financial backers conspired to force Leach to leave his post, though no charges of bribery or conspiracy were ever filed. Time and time again the sickening corruption rife within the Ministry is revealed, and on this occasion the blight has been exposed by yours truly for all to see. How long will it take for Fudge to stop hiding behind these weak excuses and come clean about his shameful addiction, and how much longer will the wizarding community continue to tolerate it? Continued on pages 5, 6, and 7._

* * *

Harry looked up to see that Mrs Weasley had been watching him read.

"Disgraceful, isn't it?" she said, nodding towards the printed picture of Fudge stuttering and looking very uncomfortable. "I know his running slogan was '_A Fair Deal for Wizards Who Deal Fair with Muggles' _but this...these _dealings _with Muggles go too far. And who's left to clean up his mess? Muggins here, that's who!"

This outburst left Harry racking his brain for anything that he could contribute to the discussion, "That was the night that he was at Hogwarts, wasn't it, Ron? We saw him in Dumbledore's office, remember!"

"Yeah," said Ron "he wasn't...feeling very well, I remember, so he left, by Floo. But how'd he end up somewhere like…" he leant over Harry to skim the article "Deviant?"

Mrs Weasley narrowed her eyes at the two of them.

"What were you two doing in the Headmaster's office?" she said sharply. _Tits_, Harry thought, they certainly couldn't tell her about their being accessories to murder - he felt that, no matter how loving a mother Molly might be, she probably wouldn't approve of that. Luckily Ron was a step ahead of him.

"We were with Professor Lupin, our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, receiving commendations for academic excellence." Ron said confidently. Harry thought this highly implausible, but Mrs Weasley looked delighted, relieved, and more than a little surprised.

"That's wonderful Ron! You too Harry, really excellent." she said, smiling at each of them in turn. Then she remembered Fudge. "You said he left by Floo, Ron?" He nodded. "Where did he go? What did he say?" she asked.

Ron shrugged. "He didn't say a place.. he just said '_anywhere_'. '_Anywhere but here_', I think."

"Interesting.." Mrs Weasley murmured. Then she slammed down her coffee mug and jumped up from her seat. "I'm sorry boys, I need to go to the Ministry and speak to Madam Edgecombe." She pulled on a periwinkle robe, muttering "I wonder what games are afoot?" She cast a fire into the grate, threw a pinch of silvery Floo powder on the flames, clearly said "The Ministry of Magic", and was gone.

"Did somebody say 'games'?" asked Mr Weasley, poking his head round back door, then spotting Ron and Harry. "Gosh, you two are up early, good job, we'll need to be up with the cock at the crack of dawn tomorrow to catch our Portkey." Ron groaned.

"And why, pray tell, do we have to get to the World Cup at that particular time? Why can't we arrive in the evening?" he asked, but Mr Weasley wasn't listening.

"In fact, just to make sure that every goes smoothly tomorrow, we should have a trial run!" he was saying, "The exercise will do us good. You two stay here, I'll get my boots on and wake the others." He leapt up the stairs. Ron and Harry, both still in their pyjamas, exchanged looks, then scarpered out the door into the garden. They raced to the orchard and hid behind the wall, soon to be joined by Fred, George, and Ginny. They greeted each other silently, and remained there until the danger of a forced march to Stoatshead Hill had passed.

* * *

That evening Mrs Weasley returned, with Percy in tow, whom she had found camped out under his desk at work. Not wanting to subject the family to another round of takeaway, Mrs Weasley whipped up a much healthier meal, informing them over dinner of the wondrous benefits of kale and kidney beans, before packing Fred, George, Ron, Harry, and Ginny off to bed, reminding them of their very early start in the morning. As they headed up to their respective rooms, they could still hear those left downstairs trying to explain to Percy that living in the office was not a solution to tardiness, and that shredding files he didn't understand was not a substitute for organisation, but seeing as Ron said that they'd all heard this lecture about a bajillion times before it seemed unlikely to be of any use. As they got into bed, Ron half threatened and half pleaded with Fred and George not to wake them with buckets of cold washing up water or damp mops to the face. They said nothing, only smiled, as George pulled on a sleeping mask which he'd fashioned from a pair of eye-patches.

However, the twins did not get a chance to rouse Harry and Ron in an imaginative way, for it was Mr Weasley who burst into the room at 02:58.

"Rise and shine, duckies!" he said, with most unwelcome cheer. He didn't leave them be until he was certain they would not go back to sleep, which he accomplished by taking the time to unstring the hammocks and steal Ron's duvet. Still half-asleep, Harry pulled on his jumper backwards three times before he gave up, and went downstairs with Ron, whose shoes were laced together, though Harry suspected that this was the twins doing. In the kitchen they found Mr Weasley, six cups of tea, and three members of the undead. Ginny in particular looked very disgruntled, and anything in her line of sight received a death stare.

At precisely 03:40, after Mr Weasley had paired packs and people, and foisted the tent on Fred while assuring him that they would all take turns carrying it, the group set off. Despite not knowing if Mr Weasley actually knew where he was going (though he'd seemed confident yesterday), they trekked on in single file, following him into a marsh, through woodland 'shortcuts', and a number of disturbingly neat piles of hedgehog shit. At last, after spending far too long in the cold and dark, rambling around the countryside, which, according to Mr Weasley, added to the adventure, they arrived at the base of Stoatshead Hill. Waiting for them there were two people; one a man about Mr Weasley's age, the other a boy a little older than Harry himself.

"Arthur!" the older man shouted "About time too - we've been here an hour!" Though his red face and panting suggested otherwise.

"Ah, but you didn't have all this baggage to slow you down, Amos." said Mr Weasley, gesturing to his children and Harry.

"Oh Gods, it's Gryffindor's golden boy," groaned Ron, though he kept his voice low "Cedric Diggory." And so it was: a paragon of masculine beauty; a face carved by Michelangelo himself; luscious dark hair; his grey eyes bright and shining like moonstones- _all right, we get it -_ a physique to rival Adonis- _enough!_

"He's a decent guy Ron, he's just a bit… intense." said Fred "Don't be a sourpuss because we beat you at Quidditch."

* * *

'_Beat' is, in fact, putting it rather kindly. Devastated, obliterated, annihilated, butt-fucked - any of those would be a more accurate description of Slytherin's crushing defeat. If I remember correctly, I believe that the final score was Gryffindor - 320, Slytherin - 10, and their single goal was an accident. Very poor playing from Warrington, I thought, though I didn't say so at the time. It would be terribly cruel to hurt the poor boy's feelings, after all._

* * *

Mr Weasley turned to the group. "Everyone, this is Amos Diggory, an old friend of mine." he said.

"Not that old, Arthur, not that old!" said Amos Diggory, chuckling at his sparkling wit. Mr Weasley laughed along with him but the look in his eyes was more along the lines of '_Shut the fuck up you absolute quent._'

"And," Mr Weasley continued "this, as I'm sure you know, is his son Cedric." Perfection personified stepped forward to greet them.

"Fred, George." His voice was strong, confident, and melodic as he addressed his fellow teammates, before performing the special super-secret Gryffindor Quidditch Team Handshake. "Harry, good to be introduced properly at last, and excellent flying in the last match." said Cedric, shaking his hand. After he had exchanged pleasantries with Ron and Ginny also, he said "Let's get a move on then, wouldn't want to miss our Portkey." And with that, he began his ascent of the steep hill.

"Handsome boy, isn't he?" said Amos Diggory, watching Cedric stride gracefully _(if such a thing were even possible)_ up the hill. "Takes after me, I suppose. And very bright, just like-"

"Yes, yes, let's get going." Mr Weasley cut in, speaking through gritted teeth.

"A race to the top then, Arthur?" Amos challenged. Mr Weasley sized him up, then said casually,

"Well, if you need the ego boost Amos..." The two men set off, each trying to look as though competition was the furthest thing from their minds. However, after very little time at all the pair of them had begun a full on sprint to the summit. Those left behind paid little attention to their antics, instead setting a sensible pace. Everyone assembled on the hilltop, Amos glowering at Mr Weasley, who was decidedly ignoring his protests about a twisted ankle. Cedric effortlessly found the strange rubber contrivance that was to serve as their transportation. After a few questioning glances at their new conveyance, they stood in a crowded circle around the Portkey, clutching what they could bear to touch of it, waiting for the right moment.

Mr Weasley counted down the seconds on his watch, starting, for reasons best known to himself, from twenty seven. On 'one' Harry felt himself jerked forwards and his feet no longer on solid ground. The lot of them spun round in a blur, the wind whipping against their faces. Harry's experience of Wizard travelling so far had been unpleasant, and this was no exception. As the nausea threatened to overwhelm him, he landed. Face first. _Never again_ he thought, pulling himself upright. Of course Mr Weasley, Mr Diggory, and Cedric were all still standing, but they too looked like they had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

"Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill." said a clipped voice from behind them.

* * *

_For those of you who were wondering, the rubber contrivance that Cedric so 'effortlessly found' was, of course, a dildo. I'm sure that the Ministry had a good reason for choosing it, and then leaving it on top of a hill, although I suppose that they could have just wandered around enchanting whatever they could find that seemed appropriate. And as we all know, dildos are always appropriate. I blame the nargles._

* * *

"_This is fabulous! I'd never have guessed it's written by the same people as before."_

_- Rita Skeeter, Queen of the Quills_

"_You're an inspiration! My next Enchanted Encounter will feature the misunderstood, troubled, high-ranking ministerial employee who finds his desire to be dominated finally sated by the tender ministrations of Mistress Scutica, a rare gem hidden away in a seedy London strip-club."_

_- Fifi LaFolle, 'author'_


	7. Leprechaun Porn

"No sudden movements, if you please, and if I could ask you line up in an orderly fashion, so that we may inspect your bags." said a tired-sounding, weedy-looking Ministry official, whose badge proclaimed him to be Sarius Kadamitan. Flanked as he was by two bulky wizard-cops, showing off muscles that had (with the exclusion of the brain) all been tended with the utmost care, Harry and his posse felt that they could only comply, shuffling forward albeit reluctantly.

"Did you pack your own bags?" the small man asked Amos Diggory, his mood improving as he got to assert his ill-appointed authority.

"Is this really necessary?" Amos asked loudly, though his confidence wavered as Henchman One stepped closer.

"Are you questioning me? Are you refusing to obey my request?" asked Sarius, now looking positively gleeful. Henchmen One and Two cracked their knuckles in perfect clichéd unison.

"Perhaps," he said softly, leaning closer and saying in what he clearly thought to be a seductive manner (although this effect was somewhat ruined by the driblets of drool falling from his quivering jowls), "you would like to accompany Hench here somewhere more private, so that he can perform a strip-search." Hench snapped on a purple latex glove for effect.

"N-no! I mean, I, yes, I packed my own bag, nothing to declare, I promise!" Amos stammered out.

"I see…" said Sarius, smiling ever more as Amos squirmed. "And how about this strapping young man?" he asked, turning his lascivious attention now to Cedric. "Would you like to find out how many fingers I can fit?"

"No sir," said Cedric, seemingly unintimidated, as Hench Two rifled through his pack. The huge man gave a grunt which was as close to human speech as he could manage. Sarius whirled round to confer with him. An item changed hands, then Sarius refocused on Cedric.

"Young man," he began, almost purring now, "you are aware that images of an explicit nature are not permitted at this venue?" Cedric's confidence rapidly drained away, as from behind his back Sarius drew out a glossy magazine entitled _Clauricorn Climax_, the front cover of which showed two leprechauns fondling each other while staring sultrily at the camera. Bold lettering below the title boasted '_Barely Legal Leprechauns_', while the repeating dickslip as the image looped was covered by an artistically rendered four-leaf clover.

Cedric appeared both horrified and entranced by the pornographic publication held up to his face, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find his words. Eventually he whispered hoarsely "It's not mine.", but there was a suspicious lack of outrage at the implication, no confusion at its presence, just a feeble denial. Cedric was at least self-aware enough to realise that his performance was not very believable, so he repeated himself - "It's not mine." he said, his voice stronger now, though his eyes remained wary and nervous.

"Well of course it's not!" said Amos quickly, rushing, sprinting, and hurdling to his son's defence, but he realised his mistake as Sarius snapped back to him.

"And how are you so sure?" asked Sarius silkily, a malicious gleam slathered over his face. "Perhaps because you know who it _really_ belongs to? Perhaps because it's yours?" Amos made a sound like his was choking on his tonsils.

"No!" he cried "It's them!" *_Amos flails helplessly in the Weasleys' general direction_* Sarius raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Those miscreants, the twins, it's their idea of a prank!"

But Fred and George were not laughing - they were instead looking at their esteemed Quidditch Captain in a new, murky light. Disappointment marred their usually joyous features, and Harry had the distinct impression that they were suddenly feeling less comfortable about the public showers in the Quidditch changing rooms.

Amos Diggory was still elaborating on the convoluted nature of the twins supposed plot to embarrass his son. "-who knows? Maybe they even broke in! And planting evidence, that's a crime, you should arrest them!" Arthur was wisely keeping quiet throughout this accusation, whilst Cedric's eyes remained firmly on the ground as his father's excuses became more and more ludicrous. After some time, however, it became apparent that Sarius Kadamitan had heard enough, and he nodded to the wizard-cops over his shoulder, who moved to stand menacingly behind the Diggorys, effortlessly popping their personal space bubbles.

"That'll do, I think." said Sarius, not needing to raise his oily voice to put a stop to Amos' inane blabbering. "Take them to...Interrogation." The Weasleys could practically hear the capital letter as Hench One and Two frogmarched the Diggorys away, whilst Amos, realising that he had lost, began to shout.

"And just why is it contraband? Who are you to decide what we do in the privacy of our own tents, you fascist!" Then, more to try and reassure Cedric, he said "No need to be ashamed - everyone does it, perfectly natural…." his voice trailed off as his mind, and the mind of everyone who heard him, flashed back to the image of the two green skinned creatures caressing each other. Sarius did not deign to look back at them, but instead he merely smiled the smile of a true samaritan, revelling in the knowledge that he had just done somebody a good turn.

He drew a satisfied breath, expelling stale air over those remaining. "Now then," he said, at last coming to Mr Weasley. "Who do we have here?"

Mr Weasley licked his lips, so as not to appear too at ease, then said evenly "Weasley family, and guest." Sarius, who had been leaning in far too close for comfort, took a cautious step back, his greasy smile losing itself in the mire that was his face. For the first time since this farcical charade began, he looked uneasy.

"Weasley?" he repeated, a littler higher than his usual tone, as he took in the glut of ginger for which the Weasleys were best known. He cleared his throat and tried to sound assertive again. "As in Molly Weasley, Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes?" he asked. Mr Weasley smiled and skillfully faked a look of surprise.

"Yes, my wife," he said pleasantly, "oh, but I expect you know each other from the Ministry."

"All too w- I mean, indeed, I do, I do." said Sarius quickly, nodding his head with alarming speed. He continued to absently bob his head until Mr Weasley cleared his throat. "Oh!" he said, as if startled, "you're still here, no need, absolutely no need, we only check bags at random, you see." he explained breathlessly. "Let's see, Weasley…" he drew a ridiculously long piece of parchment from his algae green robes. "Your campsite is in the first field you find, about 5 minutes in that direction. Ask for a Mr Roberts." He beamed at the group as if he'd just done them a great service, rather than his goddamn job.

"Thank you, most appreciated." said Mr Weasley, sounding passably sincere. He signaled to his squad to move out and began to whistle a tune of his own composition, oblivious as to how eerie it was as they walked over the mist covered moor. Just as Harry was expecting a Baskervillian hound to come bounding up to them, they reached a fenced field, and a stone cottage next to it. A man was sat outside in a garden chair barely holding on to a bottle of White Lightning, with three more empty bottles expertly hidden behind the chair legs. Mr Weasley approached him and said tentatively "Mr Roberts?" The man looked up at him under half-closed eyelids.

"Arglewargle." he replied artfully.

"The name's Weasley, we've got room for two tents booked." Mr Weasley told him. Mr Roberts opened his mouth as if to speak, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. Instead he sluggishly raised his arm, and flopped it down again on a stack of crudely hand-drawn maps of the campsite, beside which was a list of names. Mr Weasley bent down to check their location, and then eased a map away from the sweaty paw guarding them. Obliviated and heavily liquored up, Mr Roberts did not think to ask for their payment, so Mr Weasley left the correct notes in the man's bum bag.

On they trudged, through rows and rows of ever more conspicuously un-muggle tents, until they reached their allocated space.

"Perfect," said Mr Weasley examining the muddy ground "we're as close as you can get to the pitch." He took the tent off Fred's back, who was still carrying it despite all prior assurances. Mr Weasley unfurled the rich Pantone 2955C fabric, and with a wave of his wand assembled the poles, forming a surprisingly tall and thin cuboid structure, as opposed to that of a classic tent. With another wand flourish the tent awning draped itself over the shape. Mr Weasley stood back to admire his work looking exceedingly pleased with himself considering the minimal effort put in. In front of them was a blue box-shaped tent, decorated with small windows on all four sides, and what appeared to be a small lantern on top. Now that Harry could see it complete, the fabric appeared to look more like wood than textile, and as the light breeze on the moor whistled through the flaps of the tent he was sure that he could hear a quiet sound vaguely reminiscent of a cloister bell. With a nod, Mr Weasley granted permission for Harry to enter, and so he drew back the opening and stepped in.

After spending several minutes inside of the tent, exploring every last nook and cranny, Harry came to an obvious conclusion and returned to face the Weasley patriarch's eagerly inquisitive expression.

"So? What do you think, Bambi? Pretty damn snazzy, isn't it?" said Mr Weasley proudly, leaving no room for anything but awkward agreement.

"Uhm…I guess…" said Harry slowly, not wishing to offend, "somehow I was expecting it to be a little…larger…when I'd gone into it. No idea why, though. It's a lovely colour."

"What?" cried Fred, not wanting to believe what Harry had said, though he couldn't help the despair that crept into his voice. He wrenched open the tent flaps to see for himself. For a few moments he was incapable of speech, or even breath. Then he turned to face them.

"It's exactly the same fucking size on the inside, you absolute wanker!" he screamed at his father, bursting back through the tent's entrance

"Now, now, Fred, no need to shout - it's just my little joke" said Arthur, apparently obvious to his son's apoplexy.

"You made me carry this useless prop all the way here, so you could pull a fucking prank!?" Fred shouted, his voice carrying all over the field.

"Useless? Aha, no, no my dear boy." Arthur replied, "If you just stand here, I shall demonstrate… " he said, somehow maneuvering the raging Fred to stand inside the box tent. Then, with a click of his fingers, the front zipped up and the tent started to make a whooshing and groaning noise, before fading out of existence entirely.

"At last, some peace and quiet." said Arthur contentedly. "Utter bliss."

After what seemed like a long time, during which the Weasleys and Harry simply stared at where the vanished tent had been, Ron said quietly "Dad, how long will it take for Fred to come back?"

"Not a clue, lad, not a clue. Could be a minute, could be a month. Probably not a year, though." said Mr Weasley, not in the least bit worried as he retrieved some items from his pack, and having enlarged them, proceeded to erect a normal wizerrrd tent, complete with three en-suite bathrooms and well-stocked kitchenette, and easily large enough to sleep ten. He bustled inside, talking to himself about having a brew-up, and maybe some breakfast

The rest of the family settled in soon after, claiming beds and favourite mugs - rather worryingly, Ron's proclaimed him to be a '_Bad Bitch_'. Harry forebore to comment. Mr Weasley asked Harry and Ron to fetch some water from the campsite tap, ominously proffering a selection of sieves, but this time-wasting plan was foiled when Ron reminded everyone that _Aguamenti _existed.

Ron, Harry, Ginny, and George sat in a huddle with their tea, out of earshot of Mr Weasley, who had turned on a wizard radio and was bopping around the kitchen to _I'll Make Love To You_ by _Boyz II Men_. Unexpectedly, the gang discussed the most pressing issues first.

"D'you think that they were really called 'Hench'?" asked Harry, cutting to the heart of the matter. His question took a moment to register in their minds.

"Oh yes," replied Won-Won, "There was a double-plus-big bitch-fight about it when everyone heard the news - good respectable purebloods naming their twins '_Hench One_' and '_Hench Two_'. Absolute travesty."

Harry had to admit to being a little surprised by Ron's presumed knowledge of contemporary muggle literature to the point where he was able to make use of master Orwell's unusual syntax, but he could definitely sympathise.

"George?" Ron said, noticing his brother's uncharacteristic quiet, "I'm sure Fred will show up soon, he'll be fine…" The corners of George's mouth twitched down, and he gave a deep sigh.

"It's not that," he said, still looking down at his now lukewarm tea, "It's Cedric… you know how you build people up? Put them on a pedestal. And then you discover that they've been choking the chicken to little green men. And the pristine image just… shatters."

"Everyone has their secrets," said Ron in an effort to comfort George. "And if this is the only problem you have with him, and let's face it, it's pretty minor, then all round he's still a decent guy." Ron offered, although he didn't appear entirely convinced. He gave George a weak smile.

"I don't think we should tell anyone." said George suddenly, "It would destroy his reputation at school, he'd be totally humiliated." He looked at each person in the group in turn, trying to gauge whether they would acquiesce to his request. Ginny shrugged.

"It's no skin off my nose," she said bluntly. Ron traded glances with Harry.

"I guess it's awkward enough as it is…" he said "No need to rub it in." George winced at his choice of wording, but he seemed relieved. Then he actually smiled.

"Know what? This isn't such a big deal after all." George said, much brighter now. "Everyone needs to learn to laugh at themselves - until now everyone's just been in awe of Cedric. I reckon this could be a good thing for him…" Now Ron looked pleased too.

"Does that mean we can give him a good ribbing, then?" he asked, "Not mention the _incident_ as such, but allude to it?" Ron lingered heavily on the 'l'. George considered this for as spell, then he said

"I think that'd be grand." in a fair imitation of an Irish accent. "And," he continued, "although I'd hate to take advantage of a friend's misfortune, this sort of leverage would allow me to influence some considerable changes to the team… yissss." George looked positively devious now.

Alas, dawdling around, and concocting such schemes would have to wait, for at that moment Mrs Weasley arrived along with Bill, Percy, and somehow, Fred, who looked daggers at his father, before shrugging off his backpack and joining his twin. Mr Weasley surveyed the new arrivals.

"It's hard to keep track of so many, but I could swear we're missing one…" he said.

"That would be Charlie," Mrs Weasley reminded him, "he apparated here two hours ago, so I thought he might be with you… but he did tell me he wanted to meet up with a good friend, have a tête-à-tête."

Over lunch Mrs Weasley rather dominated the conversation talking about her brief encounter with Ludo Bagman as she had walked to the campsite, though admittedly it was far more comprehensible than any topic of conversation Mr Weasley might suggest.

"No consideration," she said, savagely spearing a sliver of steamed swede, "none at all, just strutting around, shouting about the match, and no attempt at dressing like a Muggle, oh no - he's wearing his Wimbourne Wasps uniform, for Salazar's sake!" No one dared interrupt.

"How in Morgana's name that man got to become Head of Department is beyond me. And that's another thing! she shouted, though no one else had spoken, "Wouldn't you agree that a person in such a position has responsibilities towards his or her colleagues?" Rather than waiting for an answer she instead ploughed straight on with "But launch an investigation into Bertha Jorkins' disappearance? Make enquiries? Show the least bit of concern for a coworker missing for six weeks? NOT A FUCKING CHANCE!

The usually calm and calculating Mrs Weasley had clearly kept this rant bottled up for too long.

"It's the same fucking story, every time!" she told them, "I'd laugh if it weren't so shameful. 'It's not our problem, it'll sort itself out, we're not responsible for that.'" she said in a whiny, nasal voice, probably imitating some much loathed Ministry official. "Yes, that's right, shunt the blame elsewhere, you bungling incompetents!"

The Weasley family and Harry took every measure to stay out Mrs Weasley's way that afternoon, lest they should incur her further wrath, and the rest of the evening continued in relative quiet until Charlie sauntered up to where they'd all been sitting outside the tent, in the space technically reserved for Arthur's mysterious vanishing T.E.N.T. In clear contrast to the rest of them, he looked to be in high spirits.

"Evening," he said with a genuine smile, winking at Harry. He also chose to sit next to him at their early dinner, happy to talk to someone new, despite the age difference, and charmed Harry with stories from the Dragon sanctuary in Romania.

A deep, booming gong sounded from the other side of forest, announcing that it was time to head to the stadium. Mr Weasley jumped to his feet and said "All right my brethren, let us be on our way!"

Once the Harry and the Weasleys (with the exception of Charlie) had bought enough merchandise to keep the passing saleswizards at bay, and decked themselves out with enough green and shamrock that there could be no doubt as to their allegiance, they joined the stream of witches and wizards moving towards the woods. They walked through the trees for a good twenty minutes, their anticipation building, until quite suddenly the stadium was before them: the architect in charge had so obviously and laughably tried to outdo all previous Quidditch arenas, for the golden expanse that towered over them was both quaint and modern, with corinthian columns and sharp shapes sticking out at all angles. Still, it was looking to be far less calamitous than the catastrophic 1809 final between New Spain and Romania, which had lead inadvertently to the creation of the Entish peoples.

After a Ministry witch had checked their tickets, and given directions to the Top Box, the group started to climb the purple carpeted stairs, as high as they could go, up to the best seats in the house.

* * *

"_The excitement's building now, and things are just about to get serious as the action begins! It won't be long at all now before we're meeting the mascots, and then the teams will be released...or maybe that's the other way around? ...oh, you were asking for a comment on the story? I guess that'll do for either, won't it?"_

_- Kikis Trecus, Quidditch Correspondent for the Daily Prophet_

"_We're very intrigued by this artifact that you mention… travels through _time and relative dimensions in space_, you say?"_

_- Saul Croaker, Unspeakable_


	8. Seekers Get Snitches

The Top Box lived up to its name perfectly - situated at the highest point of the stadium, placed exactly halfway between the golden goalposts, it was indeed remarkably box-shaped. Spectacularly cuboid, in fact. As architecturally uninteresting as you could possibly imagine, for clearly the architect had exhausted all of their creative juices designing the big shiny awning covering the pitch, and had neglected to consider smaller details, like emergency access routes and clearances. Harry and the Wheezelys sank at last into their tasteful purple-and-gilt chairs, having stopped on five separate occasions for breath as they climbed. Just as in Hogwarts to reach the Headmaster's office, a lift would have been both preferable and advisable.

As our principal cast gazed out over the brightly lit pitch, and the crowd of a hundred thousand below, a frenetic excitement gripped them, with the exception of a certain Molly Weasley, who was unable to decide between genuine enthusiasm for the match and bitter resentment over being the 'lucky' Department Head picked to join the Minister in his private stall.

"Maybe _he_ can sit back and forget about all the bad press he's getting, but the shitstains will stick to me too, and I don't have my own private P.R. department to rinse them off!" she eventually ground out through gritted teeth, all the while glancing furtively about her in case of the ever-present wizard paparazzi. Shortly after the ginger horde (and sloth) had settled in, another, smaller party came reluctantly to take their seats - the Malfoy family looked similarly concerned at the possibility of being photographed socialising with the gaffe-prone Minister for Magic. Lucius Malfoy nodded grimly in greeting at Mrs Weasley.

"Molly," he said with a slightly preoccupied air, "Good to see you. And you, Arthur."

However, despite the pleasantries, the Malfoy patriarch's focus remained fixed on Fudge. Or rather, the conspicuous absence of Fudge - whilst usually a cause for rejoicing, Lucius had clearly had enough of trying to organise the minister, who was very good at not being where he was supposed to be. Specifically, here.

"Lucius, Narcissa," Mrs Weasley replied, "you're looking radiant, as ever." Narcissa moved her hand airily as if to bat away the compliment, before smiling and settling herself in the empty seat next to Mrs Weasley. Draco went so far as to venture a noncommittal head-bob at Harry and Ron.

At that moment, Fudge entered the Top Box (midway through his infamous impression of Connery's James Bond), accompanied by the Bulgarian Minister for Magic, Oblansk, and his aides.

"Martini, shaken not shtirred." Fudge was saying, and then when he did not get the desired reaction, "You must not have seen that one, ah, I'll link you to a stream." His personal assistant, who was privately referred to by those who knew as 'the chaperone', continued her attempts to shepherd Fudge to his chair. "Ah, shank you, Mish Moneypenny." he said.

Mrs Weasley made a valiant effort at hiding her grimace at the Minister's behaviour, but it was all for naught when Ludo Bagman strolled into the box.

"Everything ready?" he asked, his boyish face shining with anticipation and just a little gin. Fudge threw his hands up and shrugged his shoulders, his expression a picture of eagerness and ignorance.

"Brilliant!" said Ludo, "Minister, d'you want to say a few words?"

Fudge's assistant threw her hand out to stop Fudge from getting up, and shook her head vigorously - surprisingly, for once, Ludo actually possessed enough situational awareness to pick up on her meaning, and (bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet) said, "Righto then, let's get cracking shall we?"

He walked over to the edge of the box, and magically volumised his voice with a _Sonorus. _"Ladies and gentlemen, and those who fall elsewhere on the spectrum, welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty second Quidditch World Cup!" The crowd roared their approval, waving flags and banners, and (thanks to the efforts of some complete and utter bastard) a large number of vuvuzelas in either green or scarlet had been sold to the spectators, and the intolerable monotonous drone filled the stadium. The perpetrator is currently the Ministry's 'Undesirable No.1'.

"First," boomed Ludo, struggling even with magical assistance to be heard over the thrice-accursed noise, "Allow me to introduce to you all…the Bulgarian Team Mascots!"

The scarlet armada supporting Bulgaria cheered even louder, as a hundred Veela glided out on to the pitch. Veela, from what Harry could tell, were impossibly beautiful women with luminous skin and rippling white-gold hair, though Harry thought them to be more like glorified cheerleaders than mascots, as to him 'mascot' always spoke of some tragic individual dressed up in large, 'goofy', 'zany' animal costume. Holst's '_Mars_' resonated through the stadium, and the Veela began to dance provocatively, which really shouldn't have worked as well as it did. Glancing around him, Harry noticed that people were either entranced by the dancing women, or were awkwardly averting their eyes as their ladyfriends glared at them. Fudge was doing his best to look anywhere but at the dancers, for fear of giving Rita the beginnings of a sequel to her most recent scandal. Next to Harry, Ron was singing his heart out, serenading the Veela with an atonal rendition of _Necks to You_. He was trying desperately to get up and throw himself out of the box to bring himself closer to the glory of the Veela, but fortunately he was restrained by Mr Weasley, who seemed relatively unaffected. The music came to it's climax before receding into deafening silence, and angry yells from the crowd still under the Veela's spell took its place. Ron, shouting along with the best of them, had ripped off his semi-patriotic beshamrocked hat, and was now fumbling for Charlie's snazzy scarlet-and-black rosette and scarf, so that he too might prove his loyalty and love of Bulgaria. Harry felt like he was missing something… had he overlooked a vital detail? Then another question - could he not feel emotions like most humans? He had no further time to ponder this though, for Ludo bellowed, "And now… the Irish National Team Mascots!"

A great green and gold comet zoomed into the stadium through the open roof, with sections breaking off into smaller shapes as it looped and arced round the stands. The balls of glittering light whizzed round creating first a rippling Irish flag, then a golden harp, followed by a rainbow, and a brief flash of what looked to be the affectionate phrase 'gobshite' directly over the Bulgarian supporters, though it flickered out of sight too quickly to be certain. Finally, the light merged to become a giant shimmering shamrock, and as it drifted towards the centre of the pitch, Harry realised that it was made up of thousands of small green creatures, which he couldn't help but recognise… leprechauns. His smile turned a little wicked, and he shared a five-way look with the four youngest Weasleys. They all said nothing, but each couldn't help but wonder where Cedric was now - no one had seen the Diggorys since they'd been taken for their strip search.

The leprechauns dispersed and settled themselves throughout the stands on the opposite side of the pitch to the Veela, making obscene gestures all the while. Seemingly oblivious to this, Bagman announced first the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team, then the Irish, successfully managing to mispronounce every single name, which was a new personal best. The referee strode onto the pitch, looking as tasteful as the stadium itself in his pure gold robes. He placed down the crate he'd brought with him, released the four balls, and the match began.

It was unfortunate that Ludo Bagman's amplified voice did not come with a built in profanity filter, for throughout his so-called commentary virtually every other word was obscene. Particularly noteworthy was his suggestion to Mullet, one of the Irish Chasers, to "Fucking tackle that fuck-faced wankstain before he fucks us all royally in the arse." He was reminded fourteen times that he was supposed to remain impartial, yet whenever the action began to heat up this fact seemed to effortlessly slip from his evidently overtaxed mind.

Apart from Bagman's colourful description of play, the match was an exciting, but fairly uneventful one - it did not go on for three days as Harry had hoped. Only four instances of cobbing, and one accidental haversacking by Ivanova, and then, with the score Ireland 160- 10, Viktor Krum easily threw off Lynch and caught the Snitch. The Quidditch World Cup final ended with an incredibly anticlimactic tie. The deafening cheers of the Bulgarian supporters subsided as they realised that victory was not theirs, nor could it have been, for no matter how good the Bulgarian team, they were rapidly tiring after three hours and could not hope to keep possession of the Quaffle, let alone score against Ireland. The referee, or Quijudge, Hassan Mostafa, looked unpleasantly shocked. Never in an official Quidditch match had the result been a tie. He looked around frantically for guidance. After a few minutes of wizards shrugging their shoulders at each other and looking blank, a representative from the International Confederation of Wizards' Quidditch Committee ran on to the pitch and conferred with the referee. There was a lot of heated discussion and moustache bristling until at last, a solution was found. Judging from the restless crowd, saying _That's all folks_ would not have gone down well. A panting official stumbled his way into the Top Box and gasped out the decision to Bagman. Ludo listened with a look of great concentration, saying 'mhm' and 'mmm' at appropriate intervals, being sure not to open his mouth too widely so that the messenger might not catch the whiff of alcohol on his breath.

Ludo turned back the audience and announced "Due to this unexpected turn of events, we now go…" _pause for effect _"to Sudden Death!" This was met by unsettling quiet. Harry was puzzled; he had never heard of a sudden death round. Was this going to involve heavy use of the Bludgers? He could attest to how dangerous they were, and shuddered remembering a match in his second year where one of iron balls had nearly killed him. Or perhaps this was a rule dating back to Creaothceann, when the sport had been far more violent. "Er, yes, well, I know it's a little unorthodox, but unless the captains would like to come to an agreement…? No? Very well then, the next team to score is the winner!" said Ludo "We will resume play with only the Quaffle and the Bludgers." Krum, who had saved his team from crushing defeat, looked particularly put out, but he and Lynch, who would not be needed, went to sit on the benches. The rest of the players took off once again, dredging up their reserves of energy for one last goal. The Bulgarian team did their best, truly, Volkov and Vulchanov working as a flawless pair to unseat each of the Irish Chasers with well-aimed Bludgers, but it came as no surprise to anyone when Ireland scored. The crowd went wild for a second time, while the exhausted players dismounted and trudged up to the Top Box to receive the Cup.

After a round of applause for Bulgaria, each member of the Irish Team shook hands with both Fudge, who seemed to think it was a game of red hands, and Oblansk, before holding the trophy up for all to see. Krum's otherwise dour façade brightened significantly when he entered the stall and saw Charlie, who rushed over and enveloped him in a manly hug.

"You were magnificent, Krumpkin!" said Charlie, beaming at Viktor.

"_Ahh_," said Mrs Weasley, who was one of the select few people whose eyes were not glued to the Cup, "so _that's_ his friend! Now I understand why he kept it a secret." Bill heard his mother's comment, and his eyebrows knitted together in confusion and slight alarm.

"Kept it a secret?" he echoed.

"Well of course," Mrs Weasley nodded "Our Charlie isn't the sort to go boasting that he's such good friends with an international Quidditch player!"

Bill visibly relaxed. "Oh, yes, they're _very_ good friends. One could even say that they're joined at the hips on occasion."

The ceremony over, Charlie said a quick goodbye to his family and left with Viktor and his team, promising to meet them back at the camp later.

* * *

Harry did not sleep well that night, if in fact he got any sleep at all. Any chance of rest was stolen away by the exuberant partying of the Irish fans, who forwent sleep or and all other considerations in order to celebrate throughout the night. They had smuggled in copious amounts of Dragon Scale past the 'security checkpoints', and proceeded to greatly annoy those trying to sleep by singing erratic snatches of _99 Bottles of Wiggenweld Potion _out of time and out of tune. Still, at least there wasn't a riot. Imagine how outrageous it would be if members of some blood-supremacist organisation or other all gathered together with their masks and costumes and attacked people, after having successfully avoided recognition and therefore prison for thirteen years, only now to draw a great deal of attention to their continued existence and risk being caught by the Ministry.

Barely conscious, Harry, and everybody else judging by the dark circles under their eyes, was very happy to pack up his belongings, tidy up the tent, and head home. They got a Portkey to themselves this time, and fortunately were not harassed by anyone insisting on checking bags - Mrs Weasley looked ready to kill. After another stomach lurching trip they arrived on Stoatshead Hill, and then were lead back to the Burrow by Mrs Weasley, who either knew a shortcut or did not share her husband's passion for dickery, as they made the walk in well under fifteen minutes. When they got back, Mrs Weasley half-heartedly suggested that they go to Diagon Alley to get books and school supplies, but a unanimous vote decided that they go back to bed.

* * *

Harry and Ron came down to the kitchen to find Mrs Weasley and Bill talking over coffee.

"I really meant to leave earlier today," Bill was saying. "The bank are expecting me back to work - the goblins don't really approve of holidays for Quidditch, you know. Hey Harry, Ron. Sleep well?"

Harry yawned and nodded. "I didn't know you worked for a bank…for Gringotts…?" He pictured Bill sitting behind a desk, in a suit and smart robes, dealing with money and goblins all day. That sounded almost as tedious as cutting the lawn with a butter knife.

"That's right," said Bill proudly, "I'm a treasure hunter. I travel all over the world finding hidden riches: deciphering clues, breaking curses, avoiding traps, and just generally kicking arse." Conversely, _that_ sounded like the Most Awesome Job Ever.

"_Wooaaahh_." said Harry in an impressively accurate impression of Neo.

Bill shrugged. "Yeah, well, it's no big deal. Althooouugh...did you know that I once stole the Declaration of Independence?" Mrs Weasley narrowed her eyes in obvious disapproval, and took another sip of coffee.

Harry listened with rapt attention. "What did you need it for?" he asked.

"There's a code on the back in Invisible Ink." Bill explained. "I cracked it, solved a buttload more clues, and found this massive stash of rubies and shit."

"And that makes so much sense..." said Ron, sounding thoroughly underwhelmed.

"_Cooool_," Harry breathed in awe, "They could make a movie out of that!"

"I'm not in it for the glory, Harry, or the money," Bill continued to the only person paying any real attention. "It's the sense of adventure, the danger." There was no doubt in Harry's mind that Bill was officially the single coolest person in existence. What had he been thinking? Bill wouldn't wear a suit when he stood here in black leather and dragonhide boots, a fang earring dangling from his lobe. He even somehow made ginger hair look good.

"Might be back in Egypt next, or maybe Brazil - I've got a good tip on Paititi, the City of Gold." he continued.

"Well, seeing as you're all so chipper," Mrs Weasley cut in acerbically, "Perhaps we should go to Diagon Alley before the shops shut. I'll get Ginny."

She left no room for argument, but by leaving them unattended, allowed them the opportunity to hide, with Ron managing rather impressively to secrete himself inside the family clock. When she returned to the kitchen, she found a list of all the books, supplies, and dress robes needed, as well as '1 super cool earring please love Harry xxx'.

Harry was very pleased, his brain unusually active. Now he just had to pierce his ear, and grow a ponytail. The only possible setback, he sagely concluded, was that he was not, in fact, a ginge.

* * *

Hermione arrived that Thursday, thrilled at the thought of spending the next week in an already overcrowded house as evidenced by the scowl on her face.

"Of course they _had_ to go to the Bahamas _now_. It's not like I go to a boarding school and they could travel freely throughout the yea- _Harry what the actual fuck have you done to your ear?_"

"What? This?" asked Harry, fondly fingering the silver plated dragon claw which now studded his earlobe. "It's a bit different, bit of a statement."

"I pierced it with a sewing needle." added Ron.

"It's infected." Hermione concluded.

She cheered a little when she saw that she would be sharing a room with only Ginny, and had obviously anticipated Harry and Ron's reliance on her for homework as she left her completed essays in Ron's room with a mere pursing-of-the-lips and a suitably dramatic eye-roll, right back into her skull, which was frankly quite impressive.

As the beginning of term loomed, the days seemed to speed up, blurring into an intangible mass. Before Harry knew it the evening of the 31st arrived - departure was imminent.

"All packed, Bambi?" asked Mr Weasley, poking his head round Ron's bedroom door. Harry made a vaguely affirmative noise. "Wonderful, sleep well all of you, good night, try not to touch yourselves!" And then, what felt like only five minutes later "Good morning! Up we get! Up, up, up!"

Hermione and Ginny were already downstairs, as was Mrs Weasley who was scanning a just-delivered long-distance memo-plane. "Bollocks!" she swore.

"What is it Mum?" asked Ginny.

"Oh, nothing, just bloody Alastor-_I-don't-give-a-flying-fuck-what-the-muggles-see_-Moody and his fucking dustbins, that's all!"

"That's a remarkably long name." mused Harry to himself.

"I need to go in and coordinate a suitable Obliviator team, I can't trust that pillock Peasegood to do it properly!" Molly said before draining her mug. "I'm really sorry I won't be able to accompany you all to the station, but this is an emergency." She looked at the four of them in apology. "Tell your father where I've gone and make sure to get there well before eleven. Bye Ginny dear, have a wonderful term." Mrs Weasley gave her daughter a quick hug. "Harry, Ron, keep up the 'academic excellence', and Hermione, keep them out of trouble." As she was whisked away in a blaze of emerald flames she carried on, "And Fred and George, tell them-"

Mr Weasley seemed not in the least bit upset at his wife's abrupt departure. In fact, he couldn't keep the smile from his face or the shine from his eyes as he pulled open the battered garage and rolled his modified Ford Anglia around to the front of the house.

"Will we fly to Kings Cross, Dad?" asked Ron as they loaded six trunks in the hugely (and incredibly subtly, of course) expanded boot.

"Certainly not Ronald, there's no sense in pushing our luck with the law any further than we already have." said Mr Weasley.

It was a bit of a squeeze with nine people, two owls, and a cat, and the atmosphere was not helped by Mr Weasley's surprising choice of Radio 1 blaring for the entire trip. However, that all changed when, after sitting in unmoving traffic for 20 minutes, Mr Weasley had clearly had enough (although what of is anybody's guess). He pulled over to the hard shoulder under a bridge, and rather recklessly pushed the Invisibility Booster. Everyone in the car knew better than to comment on this radical turn-around.

Mr Weasley sniffed. "We might as well fly now." he said, "Don't want to be late." He revved the engine, and the car took to the sky in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

After a rather nerve-wracking flight, including an unfortunate tussle with a weather balloon, they arrived with a mere seven minutes to spare and only two pigeons diced across the windscreen. They went through the magical barrier to Platform 9¾ in groups, as ever catching strange looks from muggles who noticed the small menagerie, and their pets. Harry stowed his trunk on the train and went to say goodbye to Mr Weasley, Charlie, and Bill.

"Lovely to have you to stay, Bambi, you must come again, any time," said Mr Weasley, enthusiastically shaking Harry's hand, before pulling him into an undisputably manly hug.

"We'll miss you too, Dad," said George. Fred smiled, albeit reluctantly, still not having forgiven his father entirely for his wholly unamusing practical joke.

"I'll see you all sooner than you might imagine," said Charlie with a smile, "I've got two good reasons to come to Hogwarts this year."

"And maybe I'll stop by, I reckon I can fit it in between Russia and Japan." said Bill.

"How very...cryptic." said Hermione dryly. Harry and Ron looked at her for an explanation, but she shook her head and gestured to the carriage.

"Stay safe, use a condom, and if in doubt, pull it out!" added Mr Weasley merrily, much to the resigned consternation of his brood.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione found a compartment to themselves (after evicting two very timid first-years) and waved farewell to those on the platform.

At exactly 11am, the scarlet engine pulled out of the station, taking its passengers to Hogwarts, to another thrilling year, which would not be at all fraught with danger in any way. The End. Cue '_Ride of the Valkyries_' as our charismatic crew chugged off into the sunset, that for some strange reason was happening at 11.03.

* * *

"_An interesting embellishing of the otherwise mundane of the Ireland - Bulgaria match… " _

_- Ginny Potter, Senior Quidditch Correspondent, Daily Prophet_

"_Are you going to take much longer? We are a weekly magazine, we have deadlines to meet - something __**you**_ _could stand to remember!" _

_- Septima Aucupus for Seeker Weekly_


	9. School Daze

It was raining heavily when our heroic triumvirate stepped off the train and on to the platform, and after inching their way along to the horseless carriages with the rest of their sopping schoolmates, (save the first years who were braving the lake and the Giant Squid whether they liked it or not) they were thoroughly drenched. Ron and Hermione, who was holding a remarkably dry Crookshanks, rushed into an empty carriage and waited for Harry to climb in through the other door.

"Where is he?" asked Hermione, water still dripping from her nose. Ron whipped his head around in the vain hope of spotting Harry, but unfortunately he succeeded only in spraying Hermione and her cat with droplets from his hair. Crookshanks hissed.

"He was just with us outside…" Ron said, "He can't have- hang on." He leaned forward to look out the front window. As usual, there was nothing obvious drawing the carriage, but through the dense rain one could make out a dull grey shape with disproportionately long arms hanging on to a strangely neck-shaped piece of thin air. Hermione joined Ron at the window.

"What is it?" she asked, then she spotted furry mass. "Oh for fuck's sake, not again! We've got to get him insi-"

"Too late," said Ron, as the carriage lurched forward and up the poorly maintained track to Hogwarts castle. "I'm sure he'll be fine," Ron said uncertainly, concern colouring his voice a pale blue. "They've got a good grip, sloths have, very strong arms." Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow. "I did a bit of research on them over the summer," he explained "this happens too often for me not to be informed."

"_This_," Hermione emphasised, "cannot go on! It's fucking miracle that no one besides us knows about it. There've been so many close shaves, and it's hardly fucking helpful that he transforms at every opportunity! He doesn't give a shit who sees - how can anyone have such total disregard for his surroundings and any consequences?" She let out a huff of irritation. "And you know what he's like afterwards."

Ron nodded, evidently trying to placate his seething carriage-mate. "Okay, okay, we'll talk to him, stage an intervention or something. I saw my dad do one once - that caffeine's a killer. Harry's not gonna realise on his own, not in the state he's in...not before it's too late anyway." Their visages held matching looks of grim determination as they approached the castle; the imposing building serving as a backdrop to an erratically swaying sloth.

* * *

After stealthily detaching Harry from whatever tim'rous beastie pulled the carriage, Ron and Hermione dawdled for as long as possible, pretending to be fussing over Crookshanks and complementing the carriage's 'ornate' paint job that was in no way gaudy at all. Not even a little bit. When they were the last ones left standing out in the cold, torrential rain, each snuck an animal under their robes (Ron being the lucky bearer of the sopping sloth), before hurrying up the steps and into the torch-lit Entrance Hall. Seeing that the first-years had not yet arrived from the underground harbour, they dashed over to hide behind the curve of the marble staircase. Ron set the Boy Who Slothed down on the paved floor.

"Harry," Hermione said in hushed but harsh voice "you need to transform back right now, before anybody notices!" The sloth peered myopically up at her, eyes taking their sweet time focussing. Staccato footsteps sounded, coming out of the Great Hall. Hermione and Ron spun round, hoping very much that this mysterious footstepper would not see them, but alas Professor Severus Snape did indeed walk round the staircase, his tunnely eyes locking on to their shifty forms. They tried to look as innocent as possible. It did not work.

"Miss Granger, Mr Weasley, I suggest you hurry to your tables." said Snape indifferently. Then, however, his gaze came to rest on something behind them. Ron and Hermione tried to inconspicuously shuffle closer together in the hopes of shielding from view-

"Missssteerrrrr…Potttterrr," Snape said in a dangerously gleeful whisper. Hermione and Ron glanced behind them to find Harry fully human, if a little dazed. "Your robes…" he eventually continued, looking the soggy boy up and down, "...are wet. Seven…teeeeeen points from Hufflepuff." Behind them the giant Hufflepuff House point hourglass rattled, but there were no points to be lost. Ron and Hermione decided not to point out that as term had not yet started, there could be no points to deduct, from any house. Nor did they mention that every student entering the castle was soaked through, themselves included.

"And," Snape added, "you are laate for the feast. That'll be another twelve points." He scowled at the great hourglass, which stared back unrepentantly, and then he sneered "Weasley, remind me to dock those points once Hufflepuff has actually accrued any." Harry's mouth gaped a little wider.

"Of course, sir." said Ron agreeably as he took Harry's arm in hand and steered him towards the Great Hall. Hermione dithered for a moment, not wanting to quite how much she despised this particular teacher, then skipped after the two boys.

Ron found a free space at the Hufflepuff table and deposited Harry onto the bench. Hermione's worried expression joined his, and she said, "We'll see you after the feast, okay Harry?" Harry slumped forward, forehead on the table.

"Okay…" he said with what sounded like the greatest of effort. His two friends walked away to sit at their respective tables. For Harry, the feast passed in a blur: the Sorting Hat sang its song;

"...We only wish,

To catch a fish,

So juicy-sweeeet!..."

sorted the pipsqueaks; food appeared in abundance (Harry now craved teriyaki salmon for some reason) and disappeared after all had had their fill. Dumbledore rose for his customary speech.

"Welcome…back!" he said. Harry found himself unable to focus properly. What on earth was Dumbledore saying? He was making even less sense than usual. "It it my unfortunate booty to inform you that the splinter-house Spinach Crup will not take plaice this yarr." What? Mutterings and outraged gasps followed this announcement, although Harry didn't have a clue what they were talking about. Regardless, he too felt indignant as it seemed like the thing to do. How dare they discriminate in the Spinach Crup!

"Instead," Dumbledore continued, "Hogwarts has the honour of toasting an event with an even greater risk of injury and death: the Wry Lizard Torn Lament!" Lightning flashed on the enchanted ceiling - Dumbledore had clearly been working on his dramatic timing. But alas, he was perpetually the bridesmaid and never the bride (which is for the best for those of us to whom knobbly knees in a gown do not appeal), for at that moment a great rumble of thunder sounded throughout the Hall and the huge oak doors slammed open, to reveal a man standing right in the middle of the doorway, leaning heavily on a tall staff. Huzzah! - yet another person with a penchant for dramatics. The unknown man was shrouded in a dark travelling cloak, but as he stepped into the Great Hall, he pulled off the hood hiding his face, and shook out his mane of hair in a fashion to make any L'oreal model teal with envy.

He didn't look like the aforementioned model though, not with noticeable chunks missing from his face, a wooden leg with a clawed foot clunking with every step, and an electric blue magical eye that was spinning in all directions in its steampunk socket. But his mane of hair was pretty fucking glorious. He held everyone's attention as he crabwalked towards the teacher's table.

"Alastor," said Dumbledore warmly, spreading his arms in greeting, "Hope you didn't have too much trouble getting in, and I've saved you a slice of raspberry pi. Because you're worth it." he said, looking far too proud of himself, before gesturing to the conspicuously empty seat beside him. He then faced the students once more. "May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Moody." Dumbledore clapped very briefly then carried on speaking. "Now as I was saying, the Fried Gizzard Ornament!"

Harry focused all his energy on processing this last announcement. _Moooooody_… he'd come across that before…when? Ron had said Ginny was moody…no, that wasn't it…pubescent boys often experience dramatic mood swings?…Aha!…but no…Oh! Mrs Weasley had been upset at someone called Alastor Moody at breakfast, so this must be the same person! The Wizarding World was small as fuck, after all. Harry felt very pleased with his deduction, and he tuned back in just in time to hear Dumbledore say,

"And now, off to bed with you. Toot sweet!" Then, complete with dance routine, he began to sing:

"Toot Sweets!

Toot Sweets!

The toot of a flute with the flavor of fruit!.."

And with the Headmaster's backing vocals to see them off, everyone gradually rose, chatting excitedly about something. Harry followed the crowd, but remained out of the loop as per the norm.

"Harry!" said Ron, appearing next to him "Isn't this incredible? Who'd have thought-"

"Ron," Harry cut in, eyes wide and remarkably serious despite their lack of focus, "I think Alastor Moody is the dustbin man!" Ron shook his head to indicate that he didn't understand. "Professor Moody could be the man your mother was miffed about this morning!" Harry said.

"No shit, Sherlock." Hermione said, having elbowed her way through the bustle, causing a number of nosebleeds and bruised ribs along the way. Hermione's elbows were widely feared by witch and wizard alike. She and Ron exchanged a despairing look.

"Yeah Harry, that's the one." said Ron, "Alastor Moody, he's an ex-Auror, the best there was. Looks like we're on a winning streak, what with Lupin last year, now Moody, even if he has lost the plot a bit." Hermione looked questioningly at him. "He's a great wizard, no doubt," Ron said "but he's paranoid, jumps at his own shadow, and he doesn't trust a soul. That's what my parents say, anyway."

"Wonderful," said Hermione. "another basket case. He'll fit right in here." She stopped at the foot of the marble staircase. "Harry, I don't suppose you caught what else Dumbledore said? No? Well, colour me surprised…I'm off to bed," she said, nodding in the direction of Ravenclaw Tower. "Ron, you explain about the Triwizard Tournament, I don't have the energy. Goodnight, see you tomorrow."

"Well," said Ron, walking now towards the steps which led to both the Slytherin Dungeon and the Hufflepuff Basement. "The name sort of gives it away, but it's a contest between three schools, well, their three champions really. They compete in tasks to prove their skills, and their courage, to bring glory to their name. But it's a test of wits too - you need to have discipline and ingenuity. Good thing there's an impartial judge to select the champions, otherwise any unsuitable numbskull could be chosen." Ron laughed. "But it should be amazing to watch! First the World Cup, now this, can you believe our luck?"

* * *

Harry didn't feel very lucky as he looked over his new timetable at breakfast. He was alarmed to see that he had Arithmancy and Advanced Arithmancy Studies a total of six times - surprising as he had studied neither. He squinted at the timetable, as if the offending subjects might just disappear.

"Professor Sprout," said a loud and quite posh voice from across the table, "I don't mean to insinuate that any kind of error has been made, but having looked quite thoroughly over my lessons, and given which subjects I took last year, well, one has to conclude that there might have been some entirely accidental and minor mix-up." Harry looked up to see Ernie Macmillan tentatively showing the timetable to their head of house. Professor Sprout looked between the proffered parchment and the slightly chubby boy.

"Yep," she said at last, "That's my fuck up, Ernie. You've got Harry's timetable, see there, where it says his name?" She continued, picking up a waffle and absently dunking it in an abandoned bowl of cold porridge.

"I see, I see," said Ernie, relieved now, "Thank you ever so much, I couldn't be sure, and I would hate to offend…" He turned now to address Harry, clearing his throat before saying "Er… good morning Harry. I hate to interrupt your solitary contemplation, but you see, I think-"

"Harry," Justin Finch Fletchley interjected, "Ernie's got your schedule by mistake, and you probably have his." To Ernie he then said "There's no need to pussyfoot around, you prune, you just ask nicely like a normal human being!" Harry checked, and sho' nuff, the name at the top was Ernie Macmillan's. Once they'd traded, Harry was glad to see no mention of Arithmancy whatsoever, though not exactly pleased by the sight of double Potions on Wednesday.

"So, Harry," said Justin, making a brave stab at conversation as the Hufflepuffs made their way down to Herbology, "The Tournament sounds excellent, does it not? I don't suppose you know anything more about it than I do, but Ernie here was telling me about the other schools, the previous tasks, and the death toll…thrilling stuff! Shame about Quidditch though."

"What about Quidditch?" Harry asked. And it was this inattentive attitude that gained Harry a reputation among his classmates for being a little… odd.

Greenhouse three was its usual fume-filled self, and Professor Sprout was at the far end, reclining in a velvet-upholstered chair, looking totally blissed out in the haze. "Come in, come innnn," she said to both the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors who had arrived. Everyone knew the drill by now, and settled themselves into a seat while Professor Sprout passed round bowls of animal crackers, which, according to her, were 'truly the snackfood of the gods', and plates of stale brownies. Harry knew better than to eat the cakes provided here - he'd made that mistake in his first year, and whilst it had been a pleasant few hours, he had retained absolutely none of the information imparted to him by teachers and students alike throughout the day, and he was perfectly capable of doing that anytime without assistance from narcotics, thank you very much. However, the pleasantly numb feeling had proven invaluable when it came to his initial attempts at channelling his animagus form, as had the interminable disconnect from reality. In many ways, he owed the Professor a great deal for the unwitting assistance that she had provided to his nighttime escapades. Professor Sprout handed out points as readily as she did the snacks (although she did often have a little trouble remembering just which house a student belonged to, on one notorious occasion awarding seventy-three points to Slythlepuff), but these were soon taken away as Harry entered the dungeons for his least-favourite lesson. Snape fixed Harry with a look that would make any gorgon jealous, and loudly deducted the promised twenty-nine points from Hufflepuff, and then an extra one to round it off nicely, before introducing the day's ordeal - death by Erumpet Potion.

Staggering out of the fumigation zone that was Snape's lair, Harry and his potion-addled cohort meandered upward to the Muggle Studies classroom, which to the best of their knowledge was currently residing on the first floor. It had, however, been known to moonlight as a fifth-floor room, just to fuck with peoples minds. The architect of Hogwarts, helped by Rowena Ravenclaw, had a notoriously warped sense of humour. As Hermione carried on up to Ancient Runes, Professor Burbage welcomed her uncomfortably small class back to Muggle Studies, and proceeded to astound them with a number of rare muggle artifacts.

"This," she said, "is a dinglehopper," presenting the silver, four-tined object to them. "Used by muggles to brush their hair." She demonstrated, running the item through hers, promptly getting it stuck in a knot. She tugged at it fruitlessly, trying not to lose her composure. "As you can see class, an ill-designed brush, but you have to give them points for trying." She gave the object another tug and, wincing, yanked out a large clump of hair alongside it. "Would anyone like to hold it?" Harry couldn't help but notice that this 'brush' looked exactly like a fork, much like the ones used at every meal, but as Muggle Studies was his highest average grade, it was best not to upset the apple cart. "Now here, we have a snarfblat, the first modern instrument invented by muggles. Fiendishly tricky to play, it takes a lifetime to truly master." Professor Burbage held up what was quite clearly to Harry, a pipe. "Vivaldi's _Spring_ was, you may be interested to know, composed with the bulbous snarfblat in mind. I had hoped to play a recording of it for you, so that you might appreciate the delicate, nuanced sound, but unfortunately, our phonograph exploded last Tuesday, and they're a right bugger to repair…"

* * *

Professor Binns eagerly greeted his class that afternoon, happy to move on from last year's frankly farcical Witch Hunts. "Now we can get to the good stuff!" he said "The plight and prejudice facing the goblin race, and their attempts to combat their oppression. Let's start with the 1612 rebellion which took place mere miles away, in Hogsmeade, with the Three Broomsticks serving as base for the wizards, who severely underestimated the goblins, and ended up losing three eyeballs and six livers in the first day alone!" Professor Binns had an infectious enthusiasm for magical history, and his juicy and often gory stories only helped to enhance the learning experience. "Of course," Binns continued more soberly, "goblins still don't have the representation they so clearly deserve - as I'm sure you all know, there is not a single goblin in the Wizengamot, nor has any progress been made towards repealing the 1631 Code of Wand Use's Third Clause, which was introduced as a result of the very rebellion we'll be discussing today. Most distressing…"

* * *

Harry felt very tired that evening as he snuggled into bed (probably because he'd spent most of the summer averaging at least 10 hours sleep per diem), but felt very content to be back among people who truly valued him and his contributions to conversations far and wide. Why, Professor Binns had even said that Harry's consistent performance was a superbly convincing argument for a complete overhaul of the magical education system.

* * *

"_I must say, Erumpet Potion? Very ambitious for fourth year, considering just how explosive it can be...bravo, Mister Snape, bravo!"_

_- Arsenius Jigger, author, 'Magical Drafts and Potions'_

"_I have always been impressed by Charity's all-encompassing knowledge of all things muggle, and her collection of whosits and watsits galore is beyond compare."_

_- Wilhelm Wigworthy, author, 'Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles'_


End file.
